Paradise

Patroclus didn’t always hate Achilles.

It’s not that he didn’t know they were in different classes. Of course, they were. Achilles is the Crown Prince of Phthia, born of noble, heroic, blessed King Peleus, and of a beautiful Queen with the blood of gods in her veins, Thetis. A strong lineage was only the beginning of his blessings. A golden coronet of hair, with eyes as sea green as the waters his mother hailed from, perfect health, and perfect form made Achilles the child any man would absolutely pray to be his son. With the kingdom’s greatest scholars on the payroll, he was refined, well-written, well-spoken, charismatic, and everyone clamored to be in his presence. Just his existence seemed to indicate that Phthia was destined for a golden age with him at the helm.

Only a blind man would miss the difference, really.

Patroclus is descended from a lineage of Opian kings. His mother Philomela died soon after giving birth to him, so he doesn’t have many memories of her, just the knowledge that he inherited her striking eyes and beautiful mahogany skin. His father, Menoetius, died when he was just a toddler, in great battle alongside Peleus. It was this ‘honor’ that allowed Patroclus to be subsumed into Peleus’ court when his father’s lands and riches were usurped by another noble, rather than him being discreetly murdered by an enemy within all the chaos that remained in the fallout.

His role, his mere existence, really, within the court was a happy medium settlement between the King and Queen. Queen Thetis did not want Patroclus to get any ideas, perhaps to start an uprising and usurp the crown from her beloved child. As such, he was not allowed to retain any of his princely titles or benefits. The deal was that Patroclus would be raised as a retainer and advisor for Crown Prince Achilles, receiving a decent education and some training, but that would be all. He was immediately placed under Phoinix’s care, the court historian, bookkeeper, and Peleus’ personal advisor.

While it took a bit of adjustment, at age six, this did not pain Patroclus much. As long as he had somewhere warm and safe to sleep, good food to eat, and something to do, he didn’t miss the title ‘prince’ all that much. His new room was not comparable to that of when he was royalty, but it had a private bathroom with the luxury of fountain water, a soft bed, a shelf full of books, and a balcony to sit on. Servants changed his bedding, made sure his water ran properly, and maintained the quality of his clothes in his wardrobe. Meals were always provided, though after a while he was expected to attend in the meal hall. It was far better than becoming a farmer, a prisoner of war, or dead.

Besides, just because he lost the title, doesn’t mean it’s not still in his blood. He took to his new studies with vigor, determined to prove that he was worth the investment. Every time Phoinix praised him to the king for being intelligent, well-read, cautious yet precise, his heart would fill with warmth and pride. Every now and then, during a tour of his new environment, or during his classes, Patroclus could see the King and his retinue, and amongst them, the small yet bold Crown Prince amongst them. He never thought he’d meet him until Phoinix decided that it would be easier to teach them both together.

“If you are going to serve as the Crown Prince’s retainer, then you must be prepared to stand by his side at all times, day or night,” Phoinix had explained. “You must be prepared to understand his thinking, to respond with intelligence and thoughtfulness, perhaps even to make those who question your Prince realize their own misunderstanding. In the event your Prince makes a decision that is not to his best advantage, you must be able to convince him of his own interests, without being arrogant or thinking that you are above him. Above all, you will tend to his every need.”

By then, he was only nine. None of these things made any sense in context to him, but Patroclus was determined to rise up to the challenge. That day he’d kneeled beneath the seven-year-old princeling, accepting his duty with all the seriousness a child could muster. A small hand squeezed his shoulder, cold through the cloth fabric of Patroclus’ simple shirt.

“Your name is Patroclus, yes?” A cherubic voice, doing its best to sound imperial and important. “Can I- Let me see your face.”

Patroclus lifts his face, and Prince Achilles purses soft lips together as he scans over Patroclus’ features. He’s dressed in finery, a blue silk tunic with puffed sleeves that held his bouncing curls. If Patroclus didn’t know better, he’d think he was a little girl, a doll even. A small blush pinks Achilles’ cheeks, and he lets go of Patroclus’ shoulder.

“He still has his royal bearing, despite his being brought low. He is pleasing to me,” he comments to Phoinix, who chuckles lightly. Patroclus smarts at the backhanded compliment but maintains composure.

“I am glad you like him, Crown Prince.”

“He will be studying with me?”

“For now, yes, Crown Prince. His desk will behind you, to your left. He is to learn to be your retainer.”

“Hm. Okay.”

And from that point forth, it was like an entire new world was opened to Patroclus. He was always located within a foot behind Achilles and to his left, whether it be in class, meals, or simply racing from one place to another. He was the perfect companion, always available for comment, command, or question, and he quickly learned that the young Prince was not as untouchable as many seemed to believe he was, or should be, at such a young age. There were still moments where he jumped into mud puddles and demanded Patroclus join him, ruining his finery. They stole food from the kitchens when they were hungry, climbed trees, and skipped rocks.

Whenever Patroclus was sick, servants would come by with extra snacks, desserts, or medicines, all sent by the young prince who didn’t know what else to do to help but wanted him to ‘hurry up and get better’. When Achilles no longer enjoyed a toy he would grandly bestow it to Patroclus, always pinked with pleasure at the joyous response. There were plenty of pendants and brooches offered to Patroclus like treasure, anyone else’s displeasure be damned. Patroclus could see the difference in how Achilles behaved around him in comparison to others. For the royal court, Achilles had learned from a young age to put on a performance, but for Patroclus, it seemed like he genuinely wanted to impress the older boy.

As they got older, Achilles became more precocious in his studies. Whenever there was something he didn’t understand in class, or wanted to discuss further, he would sit Patroclus down and drill him in debate. He seemed to want Patroclus to be honest, to tell him when he was wrong so that he could learn. This behavior had been a hard sell for Patroclus, not because it wasn’t easy for him to be honest, but because he’d learned for a long time to never question the authority of royalty. Still, he must have gotten comfortable, because soon he was going back and forth with the young prince as though they were comrades.

It had all come to head one day when the prince was thirteen, during an important dinner with visitors from another kingdom, when Achilles asked Patroclus if he’d made a mistaken assessment of something their ambassador had proclaimed. When Patroclus momentarily tried to defer, taking his time to come up with an answer, Achilles had mistaken it for insecurity.

“Don’t worry about them,” Achilles had finally demanded. “I am your Prince, you are my chosen, and I command you to tell me the truth at all times.”

He’d made such a bold statement during dinner, which meant that the entire court, the ambassador, his retinue, Phoinix, King Peleus, and most importantly Queen Thetis had been in earshot. Patroclus hadn’t even got the chance to pass his first (unintentional) test as an advisor before King Peleus took over the situation, and Patroclus was subtly removed from Achilles’ presence. He was only fifteen.

From then on, other than in class, Patroclus saw a noted decreased in Achilles’ presence. Then, after a couple of months, Achilles suddenly stopped coming to class altogether. It was as if Patroclus simply did not exist in his range at all. The court maliciously whispered of how Patroclus had lost the Crown Prince’s favor, that he was no longer beloved. Whenever Patroclus walked through a room, eyes glowing green with envy and sick with hatred followed his every move.

How stupid, they gleefully gossiped, that ex-prince must be to think that he could maintain Crown Prince Achilles’ love.

It was just an infatuation.

I heard that the boy was starting to make advances on the Crown Prince!

He was always going to find better friends.

Ha! Even if our Prince did lean that way, he’d never go for someone as disgraced as him.

It was about time.

Now people who deserve to be in the Crown Prince’s space will really be there.

Stupid, arrogant servant.

It turned his stomach, twisted his heart, but Patroclus still blamed it all on himself, blamed it on Peleus and Thetis. Perhaps he’d shown too much emotion, perhaps Achilles had guessed that Patroclus’ feelings had become- become deeper, as of late, and was uncomfortable? So many scenarios rushed through his mind, chains curling his shoulders in. It wasn’t until that day that he learned the truth.

He was standing outside on one of the many stone castle balconies, the cloudless, beautiful day and a soft breeze calming his soul. After spending all morning and the beginning of the afternoon inside, reading and recording old law and medicine scrolls to official books, he needed a break. It was much too lovely a day for that sort of work, and he let the familiar smell of ink and paper be replaced with clean wind. Luckily, the recording room sat on the third floor, facing away from the city, and out toward the massive blossoming field heading towards the green forests. Perhaps he’d go eat lunch and catch up on his reading in the field, he thought, daydreaming.

The peace was interrupted by a rowdy group of nobles, their horses making their way over the drawbridge and out to the field. There was a small scheduled hunt, composed of the Crown Prince and his noble peers, and sure enough, Achilles’ hair shined amongst the rest of them, his simple brown shirt and pants doing nothing to diminish his appearance. Patroclus’ heart thumps faster, a combination of hope, fear, and concern sinking in his belly. He hopes that someone has a helmet for him, in case of potential enemies.

As though the wind carried his thoughts down, Achilles turned upward, locking eyes with Patroclus far above him. Patroclus is unsure of what to do, so he smiles, raising a tentative hand to wave. It’s clear now that the other nobles can see him, drawn to whatever it is that their Crown Prince is devoting his attention to. All Patroclus expects back is a nod. Not a call, not a wave, nothing too much.

Instead, all Achilles does is smirk, comment something to someone near him, and flip his hair. He turns his horse away and takes off into the distance. The sharp cackling of his peons as they follow is insult to injury, and Patroclus sinks to the ground. 

So, that’s how it was.

At the end of the day, it was Achilles who had chosen to forsake him. Just like the rest of his toys, unused and unloved. Is his heart still beating? Patroclus is not sure. This level of humiliation apparently wasn’t enough to kill him, but he wishes it would. What felt like a lovely day now closes in on him, the silence overbearing, the sunlight shining on his pain, and he squeezes his eyes closed. The next time he opens them, the sun is low in the sky, and Phoinix has come to find him. There’s no need to even explain what happened, as the castle rumor mill has been ever effective.

“Patroclus, listen to me. I know this must hurt. Perhaps I was foolish in thinking that you both should have been raised so closely. But you must understand-”

“I know,” Patroclus growls, wiping away his tears. “He’s a Crown Prince, and I’m nothing but a servant.”

Phoinix closes his eyes momentarily, sighing. “We are all nothing but servants to the royal family, and as such we must remember to steel ourselves and continue to offer our fealty.”

Patroclus can’t even bring himself to argue. This was an old man who’d lasted through at least two generations of kings; the man that he was going to be one day. He’s sure Phoinix has had to grit his teeth through many an awkward or heartbreaking moment.

“Does it ever get better?” he only asks, voice soundly defeated.

“We get better, Patroclus. Now, come. You need to eat.”

That night, Patroclus had given away every trinket Achilles had ever given him to the servants and sobbed in his bed for hours until he fell asleep. The next day, he squared his shoulders, straightened his back, and held his head high as he went through his day. Despite the humiliation, Phoinix explained that Patroclus was still to serve as Achilles’ advisor one day.

“I’m unsure why, but… it seems that he will not be swayed to choose another for his advisor.”

Perhaps it was another of his new mind games. It didn’t matter. If the prince refused to speak with him, or to see him unless it was absolutely necessary, that was fine with him. He dove into his studies, making sure that if or when the day arose that Achilles finally let him go, he could become an educator or doctor with good recommendation from Phoinix. He ate, drank, and trained, keeping his body in good health. He refused to speak to anyone outside of common decency and protocol, and since people rarely spoke to him as a person, he hadn’t had to speak much.

It wasn’t that he thought himself unimportant enough to skip being under Achilles’ notice. Since he wasn’t officially relieved, he always had to be present when Achilles received visitors, a practice that became much more common as they aged. But whereas they’d once interacted at least pleasantly before, now Patroclus always spoke with the exact amount of respect required, and since he wasn’t able to hide his emotions in his gaze, he simply no longer looked Achilles straight in the eye. Every comment, every answered question, all were spoken as Patroclus looked at the ground, the approaching party, or at his paperwork.

For years, he only had a memory of those eyes, and he was fine with that. If Achilles couldn’t bear him the dignity of a look, he also refused to give him the power of a glance. There were temptations, for sure. After so long, gifts began arriving in his room. No longer toys and baubles, but strong cloth and wools for clothes, books, tools. As much as Patroclus wanted to refuse the gifts, to take them and set them on fire, he always utilized everything offered. As expected, upon receival, he would make his way to Achilles’ presence, kneel, and thank him for his kindness. Many of the interactions were barbs clothed in dismissal:

“You always wear such plain clothes. My Master of the Wardrobe suggests that you would look more appropriate in my court in greens, golds, and blues. As such, make sure to visit the designers to fit you properly.”

“I thank you, Crown Prince.” He would not refuse the clothes, simply giving his old finery to the servants. Patroclus stuck out like a sore thumb, the way his simple, solid-color vests and shirts lacked any sort of designs, frills, and ruffled collars the way the opulent Phthian court desired.

“If you get sick, I will have to train another to take my notes the way I like, and my work will fall behind. Make sure to have the wool woven into a proper coat.”

“I understand, Crown Prince. Your forethought is ever brilliant.”

The wools made exactly one coat, hat, and pair of gloves. The rest: given away. Patroclus was a favorite amongst the lower servants, though his generosity was spun by the court as the Crown Prince, and because of this, Achilles couldn’t just stop gifting him things despite the perceived slights.

No longer would they debate things, as Patroclus would not give him the time. Something sparked a sadistic glee in him, knowing that he could anger Achilles without missing a political beat. He barely had to say a word. Only once had it almost blown up out of his control, but by then he was no longer a silly child. He was eighteen, bearded already, and his resolve of the strongest steel. He was on his knees, supplicant physically but defiant in spirit, as Achilles raged in front of his servants.

“I ordered you to tell me the truth, always! What is this sniveling nature you’ve grown into? I can’t do anything with a spineless advisor with no opinions!”

Patroclus grit his teeth, eyes ever low to the ground. “I apologize, Crown Prince. If it would help, there are many nobles who would better fit this position.” Fire me, then!

“Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you?” Patroclus hears the ring of a weapon, followed by the sharp touch of a blade. “Such insolence! I could have your head removed for displeasing me, Patroclus.”

Only a fool wouldn’t fear death, so Patroclus couldn’t help his swallow. Achilles tipped the knife up, forcing Patroclus’ head up, and he closed his eyes.

“If it is your will, Crown Prince, I am no one to question it.”

Years of training and self-control stopped Patroclus from grinning outright at the sound of Achilles practically choking on a response. Finally, the knife left his neck, and he lowered his head once more.

“Always so silver-tongued. Get back to your work. Leave me.”

It could be said that Achilles was merciful toward him, and Patroclus is willing to concede that. Anyone else who’d dared speak to the Crown Prince in a way he deemed displeasing would be subject to a harsh beating at minimum. Not once has Achilles ever commanded that he be dragged away, nor executed, not silently assassinated. Patroclus has witnessed enough bloody court intrigue to know that he very much could and should be the target of danger more often. Perhaps it was some left-over respect from their past, perhaps it was knowledge that Patroclus was simply the most intelligent amongst his peers who’d vied for his position and not easily replaceable.

People tend to leave Patroclus alone, actually. The court is unsure what to do with him, and so they simply pretend he is not a pawn on the board. He must somehow hold the Crown Prince’s favor despite their questionable history, but he’s too smart for his own good. He’s unable to be bribed; neither money not pretty women can tempt him. It’s as if the Crown Prince’s game leaves Patroclus at the edge of a cliff, and no one is willing to place their bets in his corner. It’s a dull, lonely life, but he lives it.

It wasn’t until he was twenty-three, and the prince twenty-one, that they were called into King Peleus’ private chambers with grand news. The King of Scyros had offered his daughter, Crown Princess Deidameia, in marriage as an alliance. The betrothal had been in the works for a long time, Peleus explained, but now that all things were set, Achilles would set out to her kingdom to retrieve the princess and bring her back to her new home.

“If you feel any further need to sow your wild oats, as they say,” Peleus chuckled, “this is the time. Though, with that Princess, you might not have to.” He explains a little more detail to Achilles, who accepts his mission stone-faced, then turned to Patroclus with a complicated expression.

“Patroclus, raise your eyes.”

He doesn’t miss Achilles’ sharp inhale as Patroclus looks at the aging, jovial king.  

“Patroclus, you shall go alongside Phoinix to help serve him in an ambassadorial capacity. I expect that my son’s trip is seamless, all of the logistics properly handled. You have become a strong, intelligent young man, your reputation for efficiency and directness praiseworthy. I hope that you can gain much from this experience.”

It's the longest sentence of praise he’s spoken to Patroclus in years, and an old flame burns in his chest as he bows lower. “It is my honor to serve your Crown Prince, your Majesty.”

Achilles emits a strange, strangled noise, but says nothing. Finally, he bows, then leads his retinue back to his chambers. On the way, Patroclus has been handed a letter from a servant, previously checked for any poisons or powders. It is from the Princess, and based off the little portion he gleaned from a peek, it is… squeamishly lustful, to say the least. Even Patroclus, long determined to reject courtly love, felt the need to blush. Achilles enters his private room, and orders for Patroclus to follow behind him. Once the doors are closed, he pulls out a jar of wine from his shelf, takes a long drink, and plops into his desk chair.

“Okay, give it here.” He gestures carelessly toward the letter and snatches it when Patroclus hands it to him. He scans over the letter, and angrily sighs, throwing it away. “This is not her first letter. This is not even her fifteenth letter. Always, the same desperation… this is the girl I have to marry? Really?”

How rotten can you be?  “She is honored to have the affections of the Crown Prince that so many yearn for.”

“But she’s not the- But I don’t wan-” Achilles pauses, growling as he slams a hand on the desk. “Why should I care? I didn’t choose her.”

“It is your duty, Crown Prince.”

“Duty, always with duty. You’re like a book with the same phrase written over and over.”

“Yes, Crown Prince.”

Patroclus is unsure what Achilles is doing when he rises from his chair with so much power that it crashes against the floor. He sees the man’s golden belt buckles as he moves closer, the way the calloused hands curl into fists. Then Achilles storms away to his window, tossing it open for air.

“Look at me.”

“Crown Prince-”

“Damn it, just look at me!”

No matter how cheeky he can be, he cannot defy a direct order from his prince. As such, he lifts his eyes. The last time he looked the man directly in the face, he was fifteen, and he remembered disdainful eyes set in a pubescent, snarky face. Now, framed by shoulder length golden waves rather than curls, Achilles’ face has filled out, high cheekbones prominent and cupid’s bow lips fuller than they used to be. His eyes are harried, hiding deeper emotions that tug at Patroclus in a way that he wants nothing to do with. Finally, they settle on pride, despite the tears welling up inside them.

“What,” he sneers. “Do you think you have the right to pity a Prince?”

It’s audacious, really; oh, how Patroclus could ask him and his entire court the same. He straightens his shoulders, and looks him in the eye, golden-brown and sharp.

“Nonsense, my Crown Prince. I would never pity you.”

The response just barely toed the line of unacceptable, but to admit that Patroclus should pity him would be admitting to weakness that Achilles historically wouldn’t admit he had. Instead, he just scowls something fierce.

“Always, always with those damned eyes,” he mutters, turning away from Patroclus. “Go away. You have planning to do.”

Patroclus nods, kneeling once more. “Yes, Crown Prince.”

Two months later, King Peleus and Queen Thetis have given their blessings to their voyage and to the ship, and loud, celebratory horns sound as the large ship leaves the harbor. As expected, Achilles waves goodbye to the cheering crowds from the side of the ship, making sure that everyone can see him until they’re too far away. Patroclus himself had chosen to watch from the crow’s nest, though there was no one for him to wave goodbye to. Rather, he looked out in awe toward the horizon, his spirit imbued with an excitement he hasn’t felt in a long time.

He beams out at the wide sea, his heart pounding as the wind blowing through his hair. They’d opted for simpler clothes on this journey, for strong pants and serviceable shirts rather than the tight, silk decadence of the court, so the breeze actually moves through his clothes and curls as the ship gains speed. He’s so happy to be doing something new that he smiles down at the deck, freezing when he sees Achilles staring up at him, a small, hopeful smile on his face. Shaken, his smile slips into disdain as he moves out of Achilles’ sight.

Since Patroclus was in charge of daily logistics, he knew the royal ship’s quarters and stocks from top to bottom. The captain’s room was currently serving as the Crown Prince’s quarters, complete with a new mattress of fresh straw and down padding, a desk, and maps currently charting out their path. There was a small quilt and pillow on the floor for Patroclus to sleep as well. The captain currently slept in a guest room alongside Phoinix, who preferred to spend the entirety of the voyage inside to spare his stomach. Once they reached the shores of Scyros, the captain’s room would become the Princess’, and Achilles would have to split the room with her, though naturally a barrier would be constructed to separate them for “propriety’s sake”.

(The captain and the crew snickered at this, as no one assumed that the virile young prince would be able to resist his pretty new fiancée. King Peleus, for his part, was overtly pleased with the situation despite there being other ships with more than one guest room. Patroclus, Queen Thetis, and Achilles glared their opinion.)

The largest compartment was composed of the crew’s quarters, which was just a large space of hammocks and chests containing their belongings. It was where Patroclus would be moved upon returning to Phthia, and he has to stop himself from refusing to return outright. The only thing more comparable to the filth these men lived in was the filth that came out of their mouths when they told bawdy stories of their ‘conquests’ in brothels. He was only lucky that he wasn’t one of the regular servants that had to stay in there on the way.

The kitchen was a smaller affair, usually filled with smoke and the incessant cursing by the chef day in and day out. The menu was simple. Breakfast was fried eggs, a loaf of bread, dried fruit, and beer. Lunch was dried meats, dried fruit, and beer. Dinner was freshly caught fish, soups made from seasoning powders, veggies, and water, bread… and beer. It’s perhaps the most buzzed Patroclus has been on a daily basis, and the prince isn’t faring much better. The chef had taken a liking to Patroclus when he asked him how to clean and serve fish, pleased with his knife work and steadiness of hand, so now he helps make meals when he can.

Patroclus’ favorite location is in the medicine room. This was a requirement that he’d had while searching for a proper ship. The prince and princess’ health were of utmost priority; a ship full of untreated scurvy and rot would be unacceptable to host them in. The room is full of different shapes of clay jars and colored glasses, all tied with rope and cloth at the top to keep them fresh. The Royal Physician has been brought along, and at first, Patroclus was determined to learn from him.

However, not only has the poor physician been constantly struck with seasickness, it is clear that the on-board doctor’s practical knowledge far surpasses his, at least when it comes to preserving resources and handling injuries and illnesses short term. The doctor teaches him each herb and concoction in each jar, as well as what they are for, and how long they’ll stay potent. As one of the few on the ship that could read, he gives Patroclus one of his journals filled with notes on wildflowers, strange berries, liquors, and ailments. Once Achilles is settled in the bed at night, Patroclus stays up with a single candle, voraciously consuming the new knowledge.

Patroclus doesn’t feel like a sailor, and the life itself is not for him- he’s grown a little too spoiled for it. But the idea of traveling, of learning new things by the simple act of getting up and going elsewhere- that is a life he could live. He’s always yearned to leave Phthia for freedom that he can’t find inside of a court with hundreds of eyes all dying to see him fail. He finds an empty box on deck and sits, looking down to the sea as it splashes against the keel. Behind him, the crew yells commands back and forth, followed by joyous cheering at the prince’s latest escapade.

Patroclus isn’t the only one who’s been studying. Crown Prince Achilles is unnaturally good at fitting in with the crew. They were never going to disrespect him to his face, but Patroclus had heard whispers that they’d be taking a coddled prince to Scyros. Instead, Achilles has shown his mettle every day on board. He’d been trained with the royal navy on how to sail growing up, and the captain has been very interested in entertaining all of his questions on real-world experience. He helps change the sails, tie the ropes, to row, to fish, and even clean the deck when need be. He’s even learned how to gamble and brag alongside them, though no one is willing to bet too much money when it comes to his highness- it was still too dangerous to risk insulting the prince.

One unusually still night, Patroclus had come up from the medicine room to retrieve Achilles and witnessed him laughing amongst them as they told their sexual tales- they must truly be comfortable! His back faced Patroclus, so he didn’t see Patroclus lean back against the wall to listen. One of them, drunk off his ass and clearly bolder because of it, asked Achilles about the rumors.

“Is it true what the bawdy women say about ya?”

“What do they say about ‘im?”

“The bit about the three and the four women!”

Ah, yes, that rumor. Plenty of pretty women have tried to tempt the Crown Prince; it was whispered amongst the commoners that Achilles was, quote: “strong enough to hold three women at once and long-enough to bed four”. Despite this, there were no golden-haired bastards running around the court, and not once had a woman ever been seen scampering away from his chambers.

Achilles had only leaned back in response to the man, leonine in his confidence. “It almost sounds like you all want to see the crown jewels.” Roars of laughter follows his comment as the crew picks on the curious man. Patroclus rolls his eyes- he’s had enough of the ‘crown jewels’ and the man they were attached to.

The Phthian Royal Court had the wildest approach to their Prince’s fervor. He’s too focused on learning to rule his kingdom, they proclaimed, praising his modesty and presumed celibacy. Politics, physical strength training, all these things are so important to our Crown Prince that he does not devote himself to silly things like womanizing. He believes in love!

Patroclus knows better. The townspeople were closer than the delusional court, especially the laughable bit about ‘believing in love’. The only reason that the court barely knew of Achilles’ bi-weekly escapades was because of Patroclus’ pristine planning and some aid from Phoinix and the King. From the day Achilles turned seventeen, all the girls in town knew that if they caught the prince’s eye, all they had to do was defer to his looming shadow. It was the worst part of his job, listening to the overdramatic, obsequious moaning of the poor girls who thought that if they ground their hips just so, that if they proclaimed how good the Crown Prince makes her feel, over and over, that the prince might choose to make her his princess.  

He notably never heard any sounds of conquest from the prince himself. Perhaps he was too ‘masculine’ for that sort of thing. Pathetic.

Another, older crew member speaks up. “You’re about to get married. It’d be a real shame if you haven’t experienced some sort of tried-and-true love, yet.”

Consenting murmurs travelled around the group. Achilles only taps his fingers against the deck for a couple moments.

“I have experienced love.” It’s a quiet admission, and the crew leans in, pressing for more.

“Well-” Achilles hedges, drinking the rest of his beer. “I don’t think they like me back. I think it’s my fault.”

Dismayed cries rise, echoing across the water.

“Not liking a prince? She’d have to be insane!”

“I can’t imagine the kitten on that one, disapproving of such a hearty prince!”

As for Patroclus, he’s stunned. Achilles, blaming himself? Not just that, but is the first time he’s heard of the Crown Prince ever showing an interest in anyone. After offering a woman in question a gold coin and sending her on her way, Achilles never once questioned after her. There’d never been any notes, and no one had even tried to come back- Patroclus suspected the Queen’s influence with that. Either way, it’s not his concern now- they were on their way to pick up his future wife.

“Your servant seems to want something,” one of the men point out, gesturing at Patroclus. He graciously lowers his eyes as Achilles awkwardly twists toward him, leaping up from the ground. That night, while reading, Patroclus felt unusually vulnerable. He lifted his eyes and the moment he found Achilles silently staring at him, they were back down.

“You don’t… have any questions? About earlier?”

Patroclus has a lot of questions, but frankly, he’s not going to give Achilles the honor of knowing that.

“It is beyond my place to question the motives of the Crown Prince.”

Achilles had turned away with an angry sigh.

No matter what, it seems that five days into the journey, the crew is happier and more open to both of them, though they still defer to the prince. Patroclus is mainly left to his own devices, and he’s okay with that. His purpose is to make sure Achilles is comfortable in the morning and at night, that his meals are brought and tested, and that he is generally unharmed. Once he does these things, Achilles is usually quick to dismiss him.

Today though, no one is in a good mood. The sun bears down on board, and the wind refuses to blow. The temperature is not only hot, but thick, suffocating. Three of the men have already fainted due to heat-exhaustion, so Patroclus is close to Achilles’ side in the event that he needs to treat the prince immediately. Drinking beer doesn’t help; it only manages to quench their thirst but leave their bodies hotter than ever. Worst part is, the damn prince refuses to stop moving, making his way from the bow to the stern in repetitive circuits that Patroclus is damn near dying from. 

Finally, on the fourteenth circuit, an agitated Achilles swivels to meet him, hair plastered against his forehead.

“God, Patroclus, there you go, always skulking around me. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

Perhaps it’s the beer, perhaps it’s the hot day, perhaps he’s just had enough, but Patroclus exhales angrily. “It’s my job, Achilles.”

The moment the Crown Prince’s real name slips from his lips, Patroclus is wishing he could swallow the words. Achilles looks at him in awe, stunned at his audacity. Patroclus has never slipped like this. Still, when he doesn’t order a crew member to come pull out Patroclus’ tongue or chop off his head, Patroclus bows deeply, and runs away. He curls underneath the stairway to the second level of the ship, lounging in the shade and also praying that no one comes to grab him. He must fall asleep there, because the next he opens his eyes, the sky is covered in dark clouds.

Rain?

The temperature has cooled immensely, the humidity replaced with the beginning drops of rain. Above him he can hear the captain speaking to his next in command.

“It’s going to be a hard night. I knew there was going to be storm, the temperature gave it away.”

“There’s only two days left of sailing. Why couldn’t this wait? Didn’t we check for storms?”

“I don’t know. Rotten luck, because we did, and there weren’t any noted. Is the prince put away?”

“He is.”

The prince was in his room. Okay. That was one less thing Patroclus had to worry about. Just as the men continue to talk, a freezing cold sheet of rain comes pouring down, and the sailors began racing across the deck to stabilize the ship. For an hour they work, but the storm only seems to get worse. His instinct demands that he get inside, that he protects himself from the danger, but despite the tumultuous rocking of the ship, he makes his way to the side and looks up.

The tempest was terrible, the chaotic lightning brighter than the sun and the thunder loud and vast. It was frightful, and yet so beautiful. If Patroclus could commission a painting to show just how wondrous the vision was, he would. The furious waves crashed against the side of the ship, no longer adventurous but rather destructive, banging the lifeboats against the hull of the ship and demanding entry. Horrified, muffled yelling rises the crew, cries of “grab something!” barely audible when Patroclus turns his head and his heart stops. A gargantuan wave has risen above the ship, far dwarfing them, and Patroclus only barely grabs a rope in time before the deluge of water comes crashing over them.

His lungs are burning with the desire to breathe, the pressure of the water painfully pressing against his body as detritus smacks against him. By the time he can open his eyes again, the crew is in a rightful panic. Some of the men have been carried away, their drowned bodies floating in the sea. Others are coughing up their lungs on the deck, some even bleeding from injury. Worst of all, the boat is quickly tilting to port. The frayed captain quickly surveys the damage, and laying eyes upon Patroclus, he approaches him with a look more serious than death.

“Go get the prince, and your advisor. It’s time to abandon ship. The damage is irreversible. Go!”

Patroclus is sick to his stomach with the churning of the ship, but he manages to break into the doors and makes his way down to the captain’s room. Just as he approaches the door, it flies open, and he ends up in Achilles’ arms.

“Patroclus? What is going on, what was that crash? You’re soaked, have you been outside this entire time?”

His arms are warm, and safer than anywhere outside, but Patroclus has to keep moving.

“We’re evacuating. The ship is sinking. We need to go. I’ll go retrieve Phoinix, please hurry, Crown Prince.” With that, he yanks out of Achilles’ grasp and heads for Phoinix’ room. By the time he gets Phoinix up and appropriately dressed, the top of deck’s situation has become much worse. One of the lifeboats has disconnected from the ship, smashed against the hull, so there are only two left. Achilles is amongst the many piled into the first one. Patroclus can hardly see through the sheet of rain, but he notices that the prince seems to be looking around for someone, demanding to know something. He helps Phoinix onto the boat, Achilles helping him sit in place.

“This boat is full,” the captain commands. “Drop it!”

Patroclus’ throat clenches with fear, and Achilles’ expression cracks with devastation. He tries to stand, grabbing the side railing.

“Wait, no, Patroclus- I need-”

“Just go, Crown Prince,” Patroclus encourages, sounding braver than he feels. “I’ll be on the next one, it’s fine.” He hasn’t spoken this softly to Achilles in years, and the soft tone is enough to make Achilles sit back down.  

The second boat contains the rest of the remaining crew, and Patroclus is helping to get everyone else on board when he hears the sound of desperate weeping.

“There’s nothing we can do,” the captain dismisses, but Patroclus just can’t- he knows what he’s hearing, and if it were him, he’d be terrified as his last hopes abandoned him.

“Just give me one minute,” he cries, before sprinting up and down the sinking ship. He finds what he’s looking for; the youngest member of the crew, sobbing hysterically as he tries to move a broken leg.

“It’s okay, I got you,” he reassures him, and the young man holds his arms out like a newborn as Patroclus lifts him to the lifeboats. The captain helps him in, and they slice the ropes to quickly disconnect from the ship. It’s just as well, as another, smaller wave crashes into it, and there’s a terrifying crash as the mast cracks, tilting into the water.

“We’re okay,” Patroclus murmurs to the boy, clinging to his hand. He keeps trying to be calm, be brave, for himself and for the lad. “It’s going to be fine.”

He doesn’t know why he bothers be encouraging. The moment he speaks, another gigantic wave swells above them. As the water crashes into them, the boat capsizes, and Patroclus feels the water yank him away, separating him from the boy. He’s disoriented, his lungs are on fire, he needs to breathe, and just as he opens his mouth for air, something heavy smacks into the back of his head, knocking him unconscious.

“It’s going to be okay; we’ll be all right-”

“I’m not going to let you go-”

“I’m sorry, Patroclus, please-”

Bright sunshine bears down once more when Patroclus opens his eyes, coughing to rid himself of the sand in his mouth and on his face. Memories of the entire storm come rushing back, and his heartrate speeds as he jumps to his feet, looking around. He seems to be on a sand bar, with the tide low enough to expose seaweed, shells, and debris from the shipwreck. Behind him there are swaying trees, fronds towering above in the sky. The forest gets thicker behind that, though it might be due to his weakened vision that it feels so blurry.

He's been left alone to die.

Horror wracks his body, sobs spilling from his mouth. He can’t believe that this is happening to him, why did misfortune follow him like this?! What had he done in a past life to deserve this?! Something gleams in the sand, and he stops his crying just enough to notice that it’s a knife. Perhaps to end it all with- was this perhaps a final mercy in a short, disappointing life? As he lifts it, he sees something round and green in the distance.

A jar!

Chest still heaving, he stands, wobbling his way to the jar. He collapses next to it, his balance still off-kilter, but he can see that it’s one of the jars of medicine from the ship. Next to it, a torn piece of sail large enough to serve as a tarp. He grabs the jar and the cloth and makes his way to the closest tree. Hand shaking, he carves a large X into the bark. A bit hysterical, he convinces himself that it’s just a seeking game- what can he find that will make his survival easier here? He races back to the sand bar, searching for more and more objects. He finds numerous bottles of medicine, empty jars, torn pieces of rope, and plenty of soaked wood that can be used for burning once dried, but absolutely no food.

He's just about to give up when he sees something larger in the distance. Patroclus moves closer, realizing that it’s a body, and nausea rolls inside him until-

They’re alive!

Ecstatic, he sprints toward the person, landing in the sand and pulling them over-

And then lets them go immediately, their face slumping in the sand.

It’s the prince.

Conflicting emotions fight inside Patroclus’ mind. He’s relieved that at least one other person survived the sinking, but of all people to be trapped on an island with… Either way, he can’t let him stay here- the water is starting to creep up the sand bar, signaling that the tide is about to rise. Swallowing a groan, he shakes the prince.

“Crown Prince… Crown Prince, please wake up…”

The man refuses to wake, no matter how hard Patroclus shakes him. Finally, and with a little too much enthusiasm, Patroclus slaps him across the face. Achilles immediately stuns awake, an insulted cry as he feels his stinging cheek.

“Who the hell- Patroclus?”

Achilles is immediately on his knees, grabbing Patroclus and scanning his body.

“You’re okay!”

“Uh, yes, Crown Prince. We need to move; the tide is rising.”

He lifts Achilles to his feet and runs back towards his tree with the X on it. His small hoard lays in front of it, untouched.

“Okay, so I’m unsure of where we are, but right now, we need to find out if there’s anyone on this island,” Patroclus explains. “Worst case scenario, we’ll need to find water and settle in for the night.”

Achilles nods, acquiescing easily. “Okay. How far do you want to look?”

“I’d say about two miles each way. The island curves from here, so there might just be civilization either way.”

It seemed like a smart idea at the time, splitting up and checking the island, calling for help. However, by the time Patroclus is dragging himself back to their rendezvous point, he’s exhausted, hot, thirsty, and his head pangs with every heartbeat. Achilles was back before him, unfairly poised despite the scenario. He’s added some more resources to their pile, as well as finding a chipped sword on his journey. Patroclus practically faints in front of the tree where Achilles lays.

“No luck?” Achilles asks, though he already knows the answer. When Patroclus groans into his folded arms, Achilles reaches for his head. “How are you feeling?” When he touches the soft spot on the back of Patroclus’ head, he hisses, jerking away.

“That hurts!”

“I figured it did. Maybe we should use some of this medicine on it.”

Patroclus is surprised; he wasn’t sure that Achilles knew what was in the jars. “It’s not that badly swollen. I don’t want to waste anything.”

“You’re not going to be able to function injured. Just use some of the salve to soothe it.”

He’s right, and it pains Patroclus to even think it. Using the knife he found, he cuts the rope tying the jar closed. The refreshing smell of aloe vera and rosemary drift from the jar. Achilles moves closer, snatching it away.

“Here, I’ll do it. Stay still.”

Patroclus doesn’t feel like arguing, so he stays still as Achilles gently parts his matted curls where it hurts the worst. His muscles relax when the cooling balm is rubbed on the bump, instantly soothing him.

“It’s not bleeding, so that’s good. You must have been hit by some of the debris in the water.”

When he’s done, he scoots away so that Patroclus can sit up.

“Thank you, Crown Prince.”

“Don’t call me that, here.”

The sudden command makes Patroclus frown, and he turns to Achilles. This past week might be the most he’s looked directly at this man in years. Achilles shrugs.

“I mean it. There’s no court, no nothing. No point in saying anything other than my name, right? You already did before." His words are far off, but his smile is teasing by the end, and Patroclus remembers his slip on the ship.

“I apologize, for earlier yesterday. It was inappropriate of me.”

“Thank you.”

Silence overtakes the space for a moment, allowing them to rest their eyes.

“I am upset at something else you did, though.”

“What?”

“You ran back onto the ship.”

Bemused, Patroclus opens his eyes and furrows his brow at Achilles. The prince is completely serious.

“Okay?”

“Okay? You told me that you would be fine, and then you run back onto a sinking ship! Why would you do that? You purposely lied to me, and I don’t like that.”

Purposely lied to you- “Someone was going to drown.” He doesn’t even have to let Achilles speak to realize what he’s thinking, the unperturbed expression on his face unchanging. “You think I should have let them?”

“Your delay caused your lifeboat to leave later, leaving it in harm’s way for the wave.”

It’s your fault that your lifeboat capsized.

Molten hot fury courses through Patroclus’ veins, and he stands tall, furious. Achilles is instantly up after him, defensive.

“You really are a selfish bastard, aren’t you?” hisses Patroclus. “Nothing need thrive that isn’t in direct service to you?”

Hurt ripples across Achilles’ features, before he scowls. “Selfish?! You should be grateful; I saved your life!”

Patroclus has no idea when that occurred, but he’s already rolling in it, so he keeps going. “Grateful? I’ll thank you, but I’m not going to kneel because you had a singular moment of human decency, especially since you just had the audacity to question mine!”

“How dare you? Do you know how much I’ve always allowed you? Do you feel no shame at all speaking to your prince and benefactor this way?” Achilles points an accusatory finger at him, which Patroclus slaps away.

“You just told me to speak to you directly! This isn’t your beautiful, gilded court, Prince, right? What does it matter if I show you shame, now?! It’s about time someone told you what you really are!”

“Oh, fuck you! You’ve always been envious of me!”

“Envious? Me? How would you know how I’ve ever felt? I didn’t think you deigned to notice the emotions of a mere peon like myself, didn’t you have anything better to do?”

The caustic twisting of his own words back at him hits Achilles like a knife to the chest. Livid, he turns around and punches a nearby tree so hard the bark cracks, and his knuckles sizzle with blood. It’s enough to stop Patroclus in his tracks- he’s trained, but he’s not nearly as strong as Achilles. He lifts the knife from his pocket and half raises it, ready to defend himself if necessary. Seeing its glare is enough to freeze Achilles, and for a moment, Patroclus’ life flashes in front of his eyes. Achilles is by far the better fighter and warrior; if he wished it, he could reverse this entire situation. Is this the last time he’ll ever challenge the Crown Prince?

Instead, Achilles’ heaving chest begins to huff with-

Tears? Is he crying?

Achilles scrambles to grab the closest items- the sword, the used jar of medicine, and some lengths of rope- and runs off into the distance, disappearing into the trees.

Patroclus watches Achilles’ back vanish into the brush, his limbs still stiff as he grips onto the knife. He’s not sure how long he’s stood there, staring after him, staring after nothing, but a cold breeze snaps him back into reality.

Good.

Go!

Leave!

I’m tired of worrying about you anyway!

An old righteous anger burns within Patroclus, and it’s enough to push him to grab everything he can and move into the forest. He’s too afraid to travel too deep- who knew what predators lurked in the darkness, and if he loses sight of the beach, he’s not sure he’ll find his way back out. He can only barely see the burnt yellows and oranges of the sunset in the distance when the consistent sound of trickling catches his ear.

Water!

A small stream of water trickles past his feet, and he drops all of his equipment to stick a hasty finger in- he’s so desperate for water that if he dies, he dies. His shoulders sink with relief when the water is salt-free, and he slumps onto a tree near the flow to rest. Soon, the burning sunset is slowly overtaken by the dark blues and pinpricks of starlight, the moon only a sliver. Isolation is an ugly, hollow feeling, closely pressing down like the night onto the flames within his heart and twisting them into something suspiciously like guilt. Out here, alone in the middle of nowhere, his win doesn’t feel nearly as satisfying as it usually does. Frustrated, he slams his hands into his eyes.

Why do I feel like this?! Who cares how Achilles feels? He’s never cared about how I feel!

Warm tears scald his eyes, thickening in his throat, but Patroclus refuses to let them fall.

Achilles hasn’t cried like that in years.

The last time Patroclus had seen the Crown Prince truly cry, they were very little. Achilles’ favorite puppy had consumed arsenic, a common poison used to rid the palace of rats, and had vomited and died right in front of him. Miserable, he’d hid so well that the entire palace guard had been sent to search for him. He’d been curled up in the back of Patroclus’ closet, choking on his sobs. The moment Patroclus found him, he’d squished into his arms, wailing. He’d been too afraid to go to his mother, afraid that she would just replace the dog and tell him to stop crying.

Why am I even thinking about this? Every time Patroclus blinks, all he can see is the way Achilles’ face had crumpled at the sight of the knife, the way his breath had hitched as his eyes thinned with devastation. It makes his heart pang painfully, as though he was somehow in the wrong for being afraid for his life. It reminds him of how heartbroken Achilles was, except this time, Patroclus wasn’t going to rock him and let him know that he was okay.

It's not like he can’t see how it would come across. Achilles very well could have let him die, could have stayed safe on his lifeboat, and made it to Scyros. He could be on his way home with his lustful fiancée and a heroic survival story to tell. The court would have eaten it up, told legends of it passed down to future generations. Instead, he’s trapped on a desert island, alone, and the person he risked his life to save essentially threatened to kill him.

He just can’t understand why Achilles would do it! Why would he make Patroclus so indebted to him like this? They’re not even friends anymore, and it isn’t as though there aren’t numerous nobles vying for his position. Most of them would even be considered more qualified, more worldly, better suited than a deposed prince.

And yet, Achilles has always chosen him.

It’s too much to think about with the headache he has. Perhaps if he closes his eyes, he’ll wake up back in his soft bed- maybe the entire journey was just a dream. Pulling the piece of sail over his body, Patroclus falls into a fitful sleep.

The sun peeks through the tree canopy onto Patroclus’ tired back as his body trudges toward the beach, the path muscle memory by now.

It’s been a week.

No passing ships, no human beings, not even a sign of the Crown Prince. Nothing. The first day he tried to set fire to a pile of wood, he’d damn near sliced his hand open trying to spark a flame and screamed like a caveman when he finally got the smoke signal going. Every morning he returned to that spot, adding three more over the course of the week. It was ineffectual, but it was the only thing he could control, and so he threw himself into it. 

It’s not to say that he hasn’t barely managed survival. He’s created a small hut from poorly sawed branches, and the sail served as a roof to protect him from the elements. His singular knife, now dulling from hacking at thick tree bark, has served well for foraging for berries and roots, but is useless against any small animal that runs past his camp.

It’s not the knife, if Patroclus is being honest with himself- it’s him who’s useless. If he hadn’t been near the creek, forcing down his hunger with constantly flowing water and bitter fruit, he’s sure he’d be dead by now. He’d scrubbed out an entire jar of medicine to use for boiling, and it might as well be the ichor of the gods, the way it’s his saving grace. The water, and the medicine, which he rubs onto his face and the backs of his hands for protection.

The moment Patroclus breaks free from the trees, the sun glares right into his face. There are no clouds, nothing to protect him from the searing light. The white sand is hot and blinding, but he’s become accustomed to even this as he starts his daily afternoon search for resources. A week after the wreck has yielded less and less outcome- there’s hardly anything to find. He’s becoming so desperately hungry that he’d even settle for a tiny crab, but it seems that fate- and food- is evading him.

Patroclus is so distraught, so faint, and exhausted, that he almost misses the strange rustling of noise behind him. His mind wants to give up, wants to succumb to whatever could possibly be approaching him, but his body- his body stiffens, knife held firmly in hand. His body wants food, to survive, and he turns around wildly.

Nothing.

He tries again, turning another direction.

Still nothing.

I’m losing it, he thinks, shaking his head. I think I’ll sit today out. More berries for me.  

Something collides into his back, full force, tossing the knife out of his hand as he hits the ground.

“Why would you stay out here in open view like this? Weak as you are right now, that’s the worst thing you could do.”  

The infuriating voice is the both the last thing Patroclus wants to hear and a weight off his shoulders. Hunger had certainly pushed his worry about Achilles to the bottom of the priority list, but it was still there.

“Get the fuck off me.”

Achilles lifts his weight from Patroclus’ back, and he scrambles to his feet. Embarrassingly, he sways on the way up, and Achilles has to hold him steady. When Patroclus can finally breathe properly, he scans Achilles’ body. He’s clearly taken the same route with the medicine as Patroclus, as his pale skin has tanned but not burned. Alongside the chipped sword on his waist is a large machete, all kept looped by pieces of rope around his waist. On the ground is a net, and it is full of dying fish. Patroclus licks his lips, and Achilles smiles.

“You look hungry.”

Of course, I look fucking hungry you absolute asshole I haven’t eaten real food in a week and you- you just- 

He can’t help it, jealousy swells within him, but this time a stronger competitor has arrived in the form of starvation.

“Where did you get this?” he weakly asks instead.

“The currents flow more toward the side of the island that I’m on, so a lot more wreckage spills onto the sand,” Achilles kindly explains. “There wasn’t much salvageable, but plenty of torn ropes and sail, wood, and I even found a net. At some point there must have been other sailors here because this machete was over there as well. I searched for more people, or evidence of civilization, but I didn’t find anything else.”

The man’s luck was astounding, really.

“Anyway, I’m here to try for peace. You definitely look like you could use capable hands.”

Achilles had been trained for war, and how to hunt, and it showed in their experiences. Patroclus swallows, his throat clicking with dryness, and bites his lip. He doesn’t want to die, but the sly comment- always the sly comments!

“No thanks. I appreciate your advice for moving toward the other side of the island, though.”

Achilles yelps at his response, and Patroclus turns away, wobbling towards nowhere in particular- just away. He doesn’t get very far before a strong hand grasps his forearm. He’s swerved around into Achilles’ worried and furious expression.

“Are you serious? Really, Patroclus? Why can’t you just let me help you- you are starving, I can see that you’ve already lost weight and you need my help!”

I don’t want your help. I don’t need you! “No.”

“So you’d really rather die than let me help? Do you hate me that much?! What’s your fucking deal?”

More long-held resentment bubbles up and Patroclus glares. “What’s your deal? You’ve never cared so much about my life or my opinion before, so what? Why not just let me die, since I’ve been so ungrateful for your help? What, you’re so lonely that now I mean something?”

“That’s not true! That’s not true, and you know that’s not true! If you’d just fucking listen to me for once, you’d understand why I care!”

“I’ve spent my entire life listening to you, and you’ve never said anything! What care? Tell me, then!”

Both of their chests are rising with fury, but this time Achilles looks stubbornly determined to stand his ground.

“Patroclus, I-”

A sinister growl echoes from the forest, cutting him off, and sending shivers running up Patroclus’ spine. Slowly, Achilles adjusts himself from facing Patroclus to guarding him, his knees bending into a protective stance. He raises the machete, immediately zeroing in on whatever is approaching. Patroclus is slower to the punch, but he realizes that something resembling a black leopard is pawing after them. He’s studied this wild animal in the encyclopedia and knows it’s not native to this area- perhaps it’s a castaway, just like they are. It looks ravenous.

“It must be going for the fish,” he whispers, but Achilles minutely shakes his head.

“If it can have us too, it will. Look at its eyes. I need you to run, Patroclus.”

Patroclus’ head tilts back in shock. “You can’t be thinking of fighting it!”

“Look at it, Patroclus. It’s hungry too- we aren’t going to be able to outrun it so easily, and I’m not going to let it steal what we’re going to eat.”

We’re. As in, he planned on sharing with Patroclus.

“Achilles, please just- No!” The leopard pounces, and Achilles charges forward.

“Take the fish and run!”

It’s all happening too fast for Patroclus to make any sense of it, but he grabs the heavy net and starts to run. Behind him is the devastating, horrific sound of the beast’s growling and thrashing, followed by Achilles’ exerted grunts.

Why?

Why?!

He’s some distance down the sand when he hears Achilles cry out in miserable pain, and his legs freeze in place. The net drops to the ground, its goods distracting to the gluttonous birds swooping around to watch the fight, ready for a challenger to fall as their next meal. Both the beast and Achilles are some distance away from each other, injured. Keeled over, Achilles holds onto his left arm, blood dripping from his chest. The beast licks at its injury, a gouge taken out of its arm, but it’s much less concerned for itself. Just as it’s about to pounce at Achilles once more, it’s smacked in the face by a well thrown shell.

Both the beast and Achilles turn to look at Patroclus, who’s just as surprised at his own daring and aim as they are.

It’s clear that the beast has realized the easier target because it takes a giant leap to the right and sprints for Patroclus, vengeance and desperate triumph in its eyes. Horrified, Patroclus realizes there’s nowhere for him to go; the sea a guaranteed drowning and the forest too far away from the direction he ran.

Why would you stay out here in open view like this? Weak as you are right now, that’s the worst thing you could do.

He cannot believe that he has to die knowing that Achilles was right. 

Just as he thinks that he’s done for, the leopard cries out in agony, crumpling to the ground as a machete sticks out of one of its haunches. Not far behind the machete, Achilles sprints into his vision, ruthlessly tearing it out of the beast’s leg.

“You should have kept your eyes on me,” he hisses, eyes wild as he goes to swing at it once more. Drips of red mar the white sand as the two fight to the death, and with a gurgle, the beast finally falls, the machete slashed through its neck. The insatiable birds, crowing their applause, swoop down to maul the remains. Drained, Achilles collapses. It allows Patroclus to see the extent of his injuries with a sharp hiss- there are four livid claw marks across his chest. Two of them are superficial enough to heal with time, but the middle two are deep enough to leave permanent scars. If the beast hadn’t been so weakened by hunger, the outcome could have been much worse.

Patroclus falls over Achilles’ body, shooing away any greedy birds that think there are two options for a meal. The man is passed out, truly worn out from the fight, but his injuries are not deadly- yet. A dark thought appears in his mind- there’s nothing stopping him from simply drowning an unconscious man. He could steal his weapons, his net, all of the resources would be his to survive on. Right now, the Crown Prince’s life was in his hands.

How inhumane of me. Patroclus pushes the thought deep down and tries to lift Achilles into his arms. The man is heavy as stone. The best he can do is hook his arms underneath Achilles’, and slowly drag his lolling body back to his camp. It’s an arduous trek, and multiple times that dark voice in Patroclus’ mind tells him to give up, that he’ll die anyway if you let him, this is extra work for nothing. Furiously cursing himself, the world, and Achilles’ dead weight, he grits his teeth and keeps going.

When he makes it back to his camp, he only barely stops himself from dropping Achilles’ head on the ground, but he can’t help collapsing once the man has been laid down. Breathing heavily, he places the back of his hand on Achilles’ head and groans. A fever, naturally.

Get up, Patroclus.

He saved you.

Pay this man’s mercy back.

You’re gonna die otherwise. 

The voice of reason (and malnutrition) stomps on his stupid pride. It’s the truth. Everything that Achilles did with that leopard would have been out of Patroclus’ abilities. If he hadn’t been there, that leopard would have likely seen Patroclus and gone for the kill. Once his breathing slows, he takes a sip of some freshwater and rinses his hands in the creek. He cuts the front of Achilles’ shirt open, revealing the reddening edges of the wound.

“I need a rag, something…” he mutters, finally settling on a piece of his own shirt. Soaking the makeshift rag in water, he gently cleans the coagulating blood from Achilles’ chest. The water clearly disturbs the man, who hisses away from it in his unconscious state, but Patroclus straddles him, holding him firm to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he explains anyway. “I know it hurts, but I have to clean it. It’ll be okay, I promise.”

By the time he’s done, the rag is soaked bloody red, and the water is all gone, but the visceral wounds are no longer bleeding. They’ll need bandages, so Patroclus tears a piece of the sail from his roof and cuts it into long strips. Getting a fire going, he boils more water and puts the strips inside of it, hoping it will sanitize the strips enough to use. While that boils, he opens a new jar of medicine and applies the thick paste to the angry skin until he can’t see any of the wound any further. By the time he’s done, the bandages are boiled through, and he uses a stick to lift them into the air for drying.

(It wasn’t his smartest idea to try to wring them out using his bare hands, but he was in a rush.)

By the time he’s able to wrap Achilles’ torso in the bandages, night has fallen. No longer stressed out by the idea of Achilles dying, ravenous, furious hunger had returned to Patroclus. He wants to go retrieve the net, but he still fears the dark forest, and now he’s even afraid that a new beast will arrive to find its mate dead. Worst of all, if he returns and finds his work has been for naught…

Patroclus grabs some water and settles down next to Achilles, gently lifting his head and pouring the water into his mouth. Once he’s satisfied that at least half the water has been consumed, he drinks what’s left, and curls around Achilles’ body.

“Sorry that this is all I can do, Crown Prince,” he whispers, before sleep overtakes him.

Patroclus wakes to quiet, pleasant singing, the soft harmonies gentle, and for a moment he thinks he’s died and joined his mother. His eyes flutter open, and green eyes stare directly into his soul. Achilles slowly stops singing but continues to stare unabashed as though he were staring at- at a lover the morning after, Patroclus realizes with a flush, something squirming in his lower stomach.

It’s when Achilles lifts his finger to Patroclus’ face, drawing a slow line over his nose that Patroclus finally rolls away, flustered to his roots.

“Crown Prince!”

“Achilles.”

“What?”

Achilles gives him a weak smile, still sparkling despite his low energy.

“Don’t quit on me yet. Where’s all that spitfire energy you had yesterday? Call me Achilles. Please.”

Patroclus didn’t even think Achilles knew the word ‘please’, but he’s so caught off guard that he nods.

“You didn’t leave me behind. You saved me.” His voice is full of quiet awe and genuine happiness, and Patroclus shakes his head.

“No, you saved me. Even if it was foolish of you to fight. How could you do that, put yourself at risk for-” The moment he realizes what he’s saying, he freezes, and Achilles raises a wry eyebrow before closing his eyes.

“Thank you for cleaning my wounds. You even wrapped them. I’m touched.”

Smug bastard. “Well, I wasn’t going to leave you behind to be bird food. Though, given my scenario, maybe you would have preferred that. Unless you can survive off of water and shady berries, we’re going to starve.”

“Mm. We’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.” His voice is confident, without batting an eye.

“How do you plan on doing that? And how are you feeling?” Patroclus lays the back of his hand across Achilles’ forehead, who shivers at the contact.

“No more fever. You did a good job with the treatment; it doesn’t burn if I don’t move too much. The birds might not have taken all the fish, but if they did, I can teach you how to lay the net to catch them. I can even teach you how to skin the beast if it’s not too torn apart by now. That’s much harder, but I don’t think that we can wait until I’m strong enough to do it. Luckily, that shouldn’t be too long.”

“Why are you so confident about that?”

Achilles halfheartedly shrugs. “It’s not just rumor that my mother has magical blood running through her veins. It’s far diluted from when it could be considered the power of the gods, but we both heal in-humanly quick. Don’t you remember how I would never get sick?”

It had just been something Patroclus attributed to the privilege of good food and constant care. No wonder Achilles hadn’t suffered as much as he had. He can’t help it- it’s so wild that he chuckles. “Your blessings have always been unbelievable.”

Achilles opens his eyes, smiling at Patroclus. “I know. I’m determined not to waste them anymore.”

There’s an undercurrent of something in his voice that Patroclus can’t place, but an obnoxiously loud stomach rumble forces him into action. He washes his face in the creek and grabs his knife.

“I’ll be back.”

“Be careful. I can’t lose you again.”

Patroclus’ eyes widen, and he looks at Achilles, but the man has closed his eyes once more. Strange feelings quicken Patroclus’ feet as he makes his way back to the beach, the buzzing of flies signaling that he’s close to the scene.

The birds have done a number on the fish as well, but they’ve mercifully left the net behind. The bloody machete and chipped sword are still on the beach near the half-eaten body, and he picks them both up. The poor leopard’s body is swarmed with bugs, its insides torn open by battle with Achilles and burrowed into by numerous hungry predators and bottom feeders. There would be no preserving this pelt, at least not by Patroclus. It’s a shame, he thinks- such a beautiful creature, left to a demeaning death like this. If he had more energy, he might even bury it.

Instead, he washes off the blades in the ocean, then makes his way back to the camp. Achilles, now awake, has moved himself into a sitting position, leaning on the tree underneath the tarp. His color has returned, and he looks as though he’s healed for days, and not mere hours.

“Where’s the beast?” he asks nonchalantly, and Patroclus rolls his eyes.

“It’s disgusting. The other animals are feasting on it, and I left them to it.”

Achilles pouts, before narrowing his eyes. “There’s mourning in your eyes. You felt bad for it, didn’t you?”

Patroclus turns red, petulant. “If it hadn’t been covered in festering rot, I’d have brought it back, okay?”

With a light, teasing sigh, Achilles shrugs. “It’s okay. You can leave that sort of work to me from now on.”

“Just teach me how to fish,” demands Patroclus, exasperated.

“Take me with you.”

“You’re really heavy. I can’t bring you and a net full of fish back at the same time.”

Achilles rolls his eyes. “I can walk, Patroclus. Yesterday’s fainting was a rare event.”

“You were so much nicer when you were asleep.”

“And I’ll be much more helpful awake,” Achilles retorts. “Come on, Patroclus. Please?”

He stares from under his lashes, batting them for extra measure, and Patroclus sighs angrily.

“Fine. But if your wounds reopen, you’re going to clean them yourself.”

It’s not true, and a triumphant Achilles knows this as Patroclus still helps him to his feet. After checking his makeshift bandages for any extra blood or leaking, Patroclus helps him put on his bloody shirt.

“It’s so… gruesome, but I don’t what else you’re going to wear,” he apologizes. He’d offer the (now torn) shirt off his back, but then he wouldn’t have anything to wear, and well- he’s not the one with the body blessed by gods’ blood.

“I mean, it’s not all bad,” Achilles comments, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “I make it look roguish, sexy.”

“Okay, jackass,” replies Patroclus, biting his lip to not laugh. Achilles, delighted at this new camaraderie, cackles. As if he doesn’t know that his chest is well-built, that his pecs are pliant, his shoulders strong and broad, his abs tight enough to -

“Patroclus?”

Patroclus has frozen in place, stunned by his own train of thought. He gawks at Achilles, who’s now frowning at him.

“Are you ready to go?”

Where in the hell did those thoughts come from? This is Achilles we’re talking about!

“Yeah, yes, of course, Crown Prince.”

“Achilles.”

“Quite.”

Perhaps it was better that he’d looked at the ground all those years.

Patroclus is determined to forget his…questionable thoughts as he slowly makes his way to where Achilles sets his nets. He tells himself that their speed is due to him making sure Achilles doesn’t wear himself out with his injuries, but he knows that he’s the lethargic one holding them up. While they make their way across the long stretch of beach, Patroclus realizes something with a start.

“I know you have magical blood and all that, but have you had any water otherwise?” Perhaps Achilles was suffering more than he let on, he should have made him drink a little more before they left.

“I made my way up the mountain for cover. There are small pools of water, not the cleanest sources, but-” Achilles shrugs. “What can I do? I wasn’t lucky like you, to find a flowing stream.”

Lucky. Ha! Patroclus snorts to himself, jumping when Achilles stops in front of him, beaming.

“I guess this just means that I’ll have to stay with you.”

Achilles sounds absolutely delighted at this, and Patroclus has to bite his lip at the puppy-like expression. It’s not like Patroclus has anything else to offer; his pathetic little sail-ceiling isn’t the pinnacle of protection. Why is he smiling all hard like that?

They finally make it another section of the island, covered with low hanging trees that supply shade. Sharp gray rocks arch over a short but steep drop toward the waves. It is on a flatter outcrop of rock that Achilles thankfully tells him to stop, and Patroclus tries to hide his heavy breathing as they climb up.

“There are schools of fish that like to pool around this area when the water is calmer,” Achilles explains, pointing down towards the sea. “I think there must be something they like to prey on here, and that works out perfectly for us.” Achilles deftly pulls out the net, managing to gracefully lay it out and explain what Patroclus has to do. Surprisingly he makes a good teacher, making what seems deceivingly simple easy enough for Patroclus to replicate.

“Where’d you learn to teach so well?” Patroclus asks as he drops the net into the water, willing to admit that he’s impressed.

“I had an eloquent teacher,” blithely replies Achilles, and Patroclus snorts.

“Makes sense that Phoinix would be more patient with you than with me,” he chuckles, missing the way Achilles’ grin falls into an awkward grimace. The shadows have changed, the bright sun finally moving from the middle of the sky when Achilles finally tells Patroclus to lift the net. It’s a little heavier when Patroclus goes to lift it, and when he sees the array of fish trapped in the ropes, he can’t help his manic grin.

“I did it,” he cries, voice hoarse with emotion. “I did it! Achilles, look!”

A wide, heart-stopping smile squeezes his cheeks, and it says something about how hungry he is that he doesn’t even care that Achilles sees it. He scoops up the net, gleefully dragging it down from the rock.

“Patroclus.”

Right. He turns back, allowing Achilles to grip his shoulder in support as he jumps down. One long, bird-cursing trip back to the small camp later, Patroclus masterfully wields the knife, hands a blur while energetically cleaning and deboning the fish. He determinedly mumbles to himself while he works, robotic as he starts a fire and roasts them. After a few unacknowledged offers to help, Achilles only looks on silently, affectionately. Finally, when the first set of four fish are cooked, he speaks up.

“Are any of these for me?” he asks, blinking slowly as Patroclus jumps, salivating interrupted.

Shit. I can’t believe I forgot- “Right. I’m sorry, Cro- Achilles,” he amends, quickly handing Achilles a stick. It’s okay- there’s another one right there for him, and without a by-your-leave, Patroclus tears into the fish. It’s a little burnt, tasting of the salty sea and the mildness of fish flesh, and it’s so delicious that he starts crying. Bawling, he finishes the first stick, grabs the next one straight out of the fire and bites into it.

“It hurts,” he whimpers at his stinging lips, still chewing. He must look a pathetic sight- skinny, tired, hungry- and Achilles places a gentle hand on his.

“Patroclus, calm down. You’ll throw it back up if you keep eating like this.”

Patroclus knows this. He’s the one with the medical expertise. But a wild, instinctual part of him doesn’t care. He shoves that part of him deep down, forcing himself to take deep breaths. How humiliating, acting like a cave dweller in front of the prince.

“I know what will happen, I just can’t help it,” he mutters petulantly. “Sorry. Where’d you learn that?”

“You remember that I trained with the navy, yes? I never thought I’d need to use these survival skills, but here I am.” Patroclus watches Achilles nibble at his fish, eyes far away, and he bites his lip once more. His heart pounds, frayed by long-learned nerves at the thought of doing what he’s going to do next, but he finally sighs.

“Tell me about it,” he says, settling on a suggestion rather than asking. There- if he’s refused, it won’t be because he asked and was rejected. Achilles can answer, he can not answer, he’ll be fine either way. His fidgeting stops when Achilles brightens, as though he’d been waiting for this moment.

“It was so much fun! They taught me to sail on many types of ships, so I learned each part and how to-” Achilles barges into a long story including but not limited to the types of ships, how to build them, the different positions on deck, and their purposes. For all intents and purposes, it should be deathly boring, but his energy is so enthralling that soon Patroclus hasn’t even thought about how hungry he is as he listens.

The food is long gone, the sun low in the sky, and the fire in between them died down some as Achilles finishes regaling him with a wild tale about how he got to watch as one of the captains got caught in a full-fledged brawl with his wife’s brother over his adultery.

“It was hilarious, Patroclus. The wife even gifted me his lunch, citing that he wouldn’t need it because he wouldn’t be able to chew for a while. Those were some of the most awkwardly delicious bread rolls and cheese I’ve ever eaten.”

Patroclus can’t help giggling, covering his mouth. “You really ate it?”

“Of course! Not only was it kindly gifted to the Crown Prince, but if she swung anything like her brother, I’d be scared not to accept!”

“I can’t believe it,” he comments, sprawling out on the ground for comfort. “The Crown Prince, trained in sailing the world and fighting everyone in it, afraid of a baker.”

“If you’d seen how professionally this man fought, you would be too. I didn’t even feel the need to report anything- his own humiliation served as enough punishment. It was such fun, Patroclus. There was always a story, always life to experience. After that, sitting in court and listening to nobles preen and pry into my life like I was a doll or a dressed-up toy dog just- it was awful.” His voice lowers, strained with memories. “I really liked being amongst the crew we had on the way to Scyros. I hate that so many of them perished like that. They train you to survive, but there’s no way to really prepare for a loss of life.”

It's the first time they’ve spoken about the wreck since they split up a week earlier. Perhaps it’s due to how content Patroclus feels, fresh water and food in his belly, but he finally asks what’s been on his mind for so long.

“Why did you save me, Achilles?” he whispers, staring down at the glowing embers. “You would have been in Scyros by now, maybe even on your way home. You’d have your bride, a new ship, a future crown, everything you could ever want.” Why did you choose me?

Thick silence separates them, long enough that Patroclus looks up from the ashes to see Achilles intently staring at him. This time, Achilles breaks first, turning toward the brush.

“…everything I want…” he finally mumbles, parts of his speech bitten off.

“I didn’t understand you.”

With an exasperated sigh, Achilles turns back toward the fire, his cheeks red.

“I didn’t really think about making a choice, in the moment. I didn’t think about it at all. I saw your boat capsize, and my body moved on its own. I was swimming to you before I realized it.”

A scalding hot emotion spreads in Patroclus’ chest, constricting his throat. “That’s incredibly foolhardy,” he finally manages, swallowing. Achilles laughs, a quiet thing.  

“I know. I got lucky- I was able to float to the surface when the next wave passed. My boat was gone, pushed far away. I was absolutely convinced I was going to drown, that I’d jumped, and it was all for naught, when I saw you. Your unconscious head was barely floating above the water. It slipped under as another wave came crashing over us, but I was able to see you and swim you back to the surface.  This gigantic piece of driftwood- it must have been from the keel- I pulled you toward it and rested us against it.”

Unlike his stories from before, Patroclus feels his heart beating with anxiety and pity for how scared Achilles must have been, having to fight the tempestuous, dark ocean in order to save both of their lives.

“It must have been terrifying.”

“It was. My muscles were searing; I don’t think I’ve ever had to struggle so much before. I was able to figure out you were breathing, and I tried hard to stay awake to make sure you didn’t sink under just because I’d happened to close my eyes. Eventually the storm passed, and the water flattened into calm- it was worse, in a way. The open ocean is vast, and quite isolating. I struggled not to weep; I couldn’t afford to panic. Night turned into day, back into night, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open any more. I just held you and I fell asleep. Next thing I remember, I woke up on a beach after getting the shit slapped out of me.”

He pats his own cheek, smirking at a mortified Patroclus as the magnitude of Achilles’ actions hit him. Achilles had held onto him, kept him from drowning for over twenty-four hours, alone, and Patroclus had woken him up and treated him so horribly. Achilles’ smirk falls into a frown when Patroclus starts to sniffle, wiping fiercely at his eyes as hot tears spill down his cheeks.

“You don’t even care about me like that,” he sobs. He’d thought about leaving this man to die! “I could have never done anything like that for you, and yet you- I’m so sorry-”

There’s a small shuffle, followed by a worried Achilles grasping his hands.

“Please don’t cry. You helped me multiple times while we’ve been here- even if you were tempted to leave me behind, you didn’t. And…” Achilles takes a deep breath. “I’ve always cared about you, Patroclus. I just…” There’s a moment where he flushes, grits his teeth, and continues. “I chose honor, and protocol. I wanted to be loved by those who were considered important, since I was told that I cannot pick an individual- not even myself- over my kingdom. But I’ve always remembered you, and always strived for you to be comfortable, to be near me. Always. Even when you turned your gaze from me.”

The sudden confession is enough to freeze Patroclus’ crying, though his face is still wet. “What?”

Achilles’ eyes flash as he continued. “I found myself desperately missing the wide, intelligent, honest gaze of the one person in the kingdom who would dare look at me that way. I missed talking to you, I missed talking to someone who actually wanted to hear what I had to say, rather than entertaining me for favor. I missed you. Even so, I was so prideful. I’d bought into my own game so much that I refused to order you to look at me, to listen to me- if I wasn’t going to get the real thing, I didn’t want it at all. I realized that I was afraid- I didn’t want to see obsequiousness in your eyes. I only broke the once, and even then, you didn’t fail- even when I slipped, and asked, your eyes were still true- even if they were filled with resentment.”

Patroclus laughs wetly, letting his hands fall to his lap, his gaze following. “You really ought to have had me beaten. I was constantly pushing your boundaries, and you kept letting me get away with it- no Crown Prince would aspire to it.”

Achilles scoffs. “I would never have you beaten, Patroclus. The day you literally risked your neck to defy me, I-” He pauses, making a strangely conflicted noise. “Well, anyway, I respected that. Even if it infuriated me. The point is, I want to hear how you feel about things. There’s nothing I desire more in the world than for us to be close again. I can’t believe it took us getting deserted on an island to happen, but I am happy to have the chance.”

Warm, gentle fingers slowly tilt Patroclus’ head back up. They’re unnaturally close, unable to lock gazes any further, so if that was Achilles’ purpose, he’s failing. Instead, if Patroclus leaned any closer, he would be able to feel Achilles’ hitched breathing, seal soft, cupid’s bow lips with his own. A sharp, nervous heartbeat breaks into his reverie, and Patroclus moves back a little, his skin turning russet with a blush.

“I relate to what you said,” he comments, voice tight as he finds more kindling for the fire. “About the sailing, I mean.”

Subdued, Achilles sits back down across the fire. “How so?”  

“It was very freeing. I didn’t expect to feel as happy as I did, especially since I didn’t have any sailing background. Though, granted, I absolutely abhorred the idea of having to sail back to Phthia in the main crew cabin. I planned on asking you to allow me to sail back on my own.”

Achilles’ laugh this time is louder, more relaxed. “I don’t know if I could have allowed that. You might have run away if I’d let you out of my sight.”

His accusation makes Patroclus pout, though playfully. “I might be a little spoiled. The only way I’d be willing to travel back is if I were in the Crown Prince’s quarters. Not like that!” he cries, watching Achilles’ brow lift. “If I could have my own room, I would.”

“What else would you do?”

“I’d travel the world. I want to write a journal like the one that the ship medic had- one full of medicines from map edge to edge.” It was a shame that such an important piece of literature had been lost in the wreck; Patroclus would have asked to transcribe it if they’d ever made it back. “I’d try new foods, meet new people, maybe even help them learn medicine and they could teach me what they know.”

Sea-green eyes sparkle at him. “You’re so passionate about it.”

“Well, anything would be better than having the Phthian Royal Court watching me, waiting for me to fail. I could be Patroclus out there, and not the ‘deposed, useless prince’, the ‘Crown Prince’s shadow’, that ‘bastard, arrogant servant’.”

“They said those things about you?”

Stunned, Patroclus blinks at an infuriated Achilles. “Did you not hear?”

“I thought- once we were older, I thought that you’d proven yourself well, that they recognized your worth. I thought that my favor would protect you,” he mutters trailing off. Patroclus shrugs. Achilles’ favor, even if contemptuous, had protected him from direct threat, but not even a king could protect someone from the hateful envy of entitled nobles.

“Can we start over, please?” Patroclus’ brow rises, and Achilles has the decency to look ashamed. “I haven’t been as good to you as I could have been. But I want to start over. Like I told you- I miss my friend. I miss being Patroclus’ friend, his confidant, the counterpart to a proud Crown Prince.”

Patroclus flushes so suddenly that it makes him dizzy. This is the first time anyone in living memory has called him by his long-lost title. Speechless, he only looks at Achilles with a baffled expression, and Achilles grins.

“Prince.”

“Eep-”

“Aw. My Prince.”

“Stop it.”

“The first thing I’m going to do for my Prince is make sure he has somewhere better to live, starting tomorrow.”

“Achilles!”

When a wicked Achilles shows no signs of releasing of Patroclus’ poor heart, he finally crosses his arms.

“Fine! We’re friends! But you’ll carry your own weight. Titles don’t matter while we’re here.”

He’s not prepared for the absolute bear hug that tackles him to the ground, his body squeezed tight as Achilles triumphantly wraps his arms around him. He’s also not prepared for how secure it makes him feel, the way his old guilt and stress seem to bubble up and fly away from his soul.  

Time passes- Patroclus has long lost count of the days, but the sun rises and sets, and just as assuredly, he and Achilles are ready to face a new day. Long gone are the days of them struggling to figure out how to survive; their daily tasks have become second nature. Patroclus is a brilliant forager, focusing his efforts on cooking, medication, and preservation of food and water; Achilles joyfully takes on the role of hunting, skinning, and tool creation and preservation.

It had been easier once they’d moved further up the mountain, finding a larger source of freshwater. A small cavern on a cliffside serves as their shelter- despite there being more direct exposure to the elements, there’s enough space in the front to serve as a lookout over the forests and out to the sea. It’s a beautiful view at dusk, the horizon feeling just within reach, and when Achilles had proudly revealed the view to Patroclus, he’d gasped with pleasure at the sight.

The exposure is easy enough to deal with; because there’s a cavern serving as overhead protection, Patroclus finds thick sections of moss to turn into a curtain of sorts to hang in the front with left over rope and rock. The sail has become two blankets, the extra lengths left over have become extra bandages. Over time, more things have been added to their ‘home’- a small chest, a hole in the back for storing things that need to be kept cool, walls of medicine jars. There’s a small ‘bathroom’ hole elsewhere in the brush, because Patroclus refused to go in their source of freshwater.

While fish has become a staple, patient hunting and exploration has yielded birds and their eggs, as well as sweet citrus fruit trees and coconuts full of milk. Ever since Patroclus has started evaporating seawater for salt, food is plentiful and flavorful, so they’re no longer yearning for food every time they awake. Every morning Patroclus is up first, starting the fire in the middle of the small clearing so that he can make them food on the sheet rock that Achilles formed into crude plates and a pan.

Like clockwork, when Achilles wakes, he comes out of the cavern and will plop into Patroclus’ lap as though a sickly maiden, begging him for food. It allows Patroclus to check him over…for health reasons (no, his heart is not pounding as he rakes his eyes over the man’s body!) The bandages were long gone, with only four claw marks across his pectorals that he makes a point to brag about. While Patroclus is proud of how clean they are- it means his barebones treatment had been effective, plus the boon of Achilles’ blood- it also forces him to notice something else. The once pure muscle, pale, shiny, and unused, has gained a tanned, thick ruggedness from application that makes him unintentionally lick his lips. There are plenty of small scars around his hands and arms from hunting incidents and impatience, and Patroclus has patiently clean and treat each one.

To his own pride, after secret glances at his own reflection, Patroclus has changed too. While he’s leaner, lither than Achilles, his muscles have hardened as well. Thanks to the soothing balm he’s made, shaving his beard hasn’t been painful, which is fortunate as his facial hair is determined to make him look like an old man before his time. His hair curls to his mid-back, tied out of his face with a small piece of rope.

He’s also become much more resourceful utilizing the land. As it turned out, once he wasn’t starving, he was much more observant about the environment. He can make a treatment for almost anything, putting to memory every plant that can and cannot be used. Some plants are food, some are medicine, some have even served as soaps of sorts for them to bathe with in the stream. Things that are poisonous have become traps, keeping small animals away from their resources.

As for the island as a whole, they’ve managed to travel about half of it, Achilles refusing to leave his side for fear of danger. Their island is the largest, with a sizeable mountain. There are other small islands in the distance, some close enough to walk the sandbar at low tide and swim at high, others requiring a boat. Evidence of other sailors can be found in the wild hogs that swim back and forth between the islands- every now and then, smoked pork graces their sparce menu and skins served as good kindling.

Perhaps the only thing keeping the hog population in check might be the tiny population of jaguars on the island, and it doesn’t help that Achilles wants to go hunt more. Of all the little things that they’ve argued over while building their mutualistic relationship, it’s this that near sends Patroclus over the edge.

When Achilles comes home and suggests it, nonchalant look on his stupid face, Patroclus almost throws something at him.

“You can’t possibly want to go after more of them? What if something bad happens, or you get hurt? No.”

Achilles shrugs, posture unflinchingly brave. “Their pelts will be perfect to sleep on. I know your back hurts from sleeping on the hard ground every night, Patroclus. I’ve seen you struggle.”

“I- first of all, don’t make me sound fragile like that- I am perfectly fine with sleeping on the ground instead of running into one of those beasts again.”

“Oh, come on. This is different. The one we fought before clearly wasn’t a good enough hunter to go after the hogs, and that’s why we were a target.”

“Yes, because the stronger, healthier jaguars are less of a threat! Do you hear yourself?!”

“Patroclus. Please. Trust me. I’ve sharpened my sword, my machete, and my spear; I’ve even been training. If something happens- which it won’t- I’ll heal just like I did last time.”

It’s the wrong answer, and even Achilles has the decency to flinch as horrified and furious butterscotch eyes flash at him.

“You didn’t just ‘heal like last time’, I had to patch you up! Do you think I want to see you in pain again? What if I don’t find you because you’ve been eaten, or if I find your half-eaten, mauled body somewhere in the forest?”

His voice shakes with emotion, so when Achilles moves in closer, Patroclus thinks that perhaps he was going to hold him, tell him that he wasn’t going to risk his life and that it would all be okay.

Instead, the bastard leans in and asks him, in a curiously soft voice: “Do you really think I’d taste that good?”

Patroclus’ right hook is fast, but Achilles is unfortunately faster as he dodges the hit, cackling before pinning Patroclus’ body to the uncomfortably cold, rock wall. Achilles’ fist presses into Patroclus’ lower stomach, just over the groin, his lips so close to Patroclus’ neck that Patroclus is sure that he could feel him swallow.

“Ouch,” he hisses, hoping Achilles would catch the hint and release him.

“Hm. Having your body against hard rock does hurts. I bet a pelt would help.”

“You’ve proven your point, Achilles,” Patroclus grits, finally moving a hand to grasp around Achilles’ fist. “Be damned my feelings on the matter.”

He could feel soft chuckling breaths against his neck, before Achilles moved his hands to both sides of Patroclus’ head.

“Listen, Philtatos,” he croons, “I’ll be back. I swear on it. I just want to make sure that you and I are comfortable here. I believe in my prince, could you believe in yours?”

Before Patroclus could snap from his unbreathing shock, Achilles pushes away, grabbing his already packed provisions, and speeding away into the brush. It was a few minutes before Patroclus could move, and rather than do any of the things he’d planned to do that day, he hobbles out to the edge of the cliff and sits, staring out at the ocean.

How dare Achilles weaponize his- that- title against him! And in that crooning, seductive tone! Who did he think Patroclus was?

Philtatos?!

Who was he calling beloved?!

Without thinking about it, he places a hand over his lower belly, pressing the way Achilles had. He can’t believe the way he’d tensed- it hadn’t been out of pain, or stress- instead, warmth had spooled behind the audacious fist. He shudders to think what would have happened if Achilles had moved any lower, especially since Patroclus can feel how painfully stiff and swollen he is. It’s not that he doesn’t know what this is, but he certainly hasn’t experienced it for- for Achilles since he was an over-romantic teenager.

Damn that man!

And the nerve to say something like that, before fucking off and potentially dying!

He doesn’t want to fall for Achilles again! This is his own fault; he hadn’t been firm with any boundaries ever since Patroclus accepted his offer of friendship. Achilles practically has free reign with his heart, leaning against him, touching him, jokingly flirting, being the buoyant Prince he’d always been, but Patroclus… well, he’s not sure if he can accept the prince messing with his emotions like this again. If they ever get off this island, he won’t be able to accept that Achilles will have to choose another, maybe even fall back into his habit of satisfying himself with random women, all while he’d allowed his foolish heart to thaw temporarily.

He certainly can’t pop boners just because he’s in close quarters! Unacceptable!

Patroclus spends so long waiting in thought that the sunset paints the horizon a deep orange, and he’s still not moved. Sighing, he moves to stand- he supposes there no harm in wasting a day, not when there’s so many free ones to do anything he chooses. Perhaps Achilles will be back soon, he’d promised-

A noise behind him stuns him so badly that Patroclus jerks away, his feet slipping. Panic constricts his chest when there’s no ground beneath his hands. He flounders in open space, vision spinning, his heart sinking as he realizes that this is it- he’s going to plummet a hundred feet to his death, he’s really going to die alone-

“Patroclus!”

Splayed on the ground, Achilles’ firm hand desperately grasps his ankle, suspending him in midair as Patroclus dangles over the cliff. With a strong huff, Achilles hauls Patroclus back up, pulling him backward onto solid space.

“No more sitting on the edge when I’m not here!” Achilles looks genuinely sick with concern, eyes scanning over Patroclus’ body as though he can’t believe he’s really there in front of him.

Okay- Patroclus had planned to be mature, controlled, the opposite of his earlier outburst to prove that Achilles couldn’t control his emotions so easily anymore. Instead, his chest heaves, and he shoves his head into Achilles’ shoulder, shuddering with tearless sobs of relief that they’re both still alive. He allows Achilles to soothe him, to call him Philtatos while he rubs his back, allows him to lead him back to the cavern until his heart rate slows into rest.

He’ll harden his heart tomorrow.

The furs were a phenomenal idea.

Snuggled nightly onto his sleek, velvety pelt like it’s the greatest luxury ever, Patroclus is willing to admit it. His back very much appreciates the week worth of effort that Achilles put into cleaning and preserving the skins. The night they were finally ready, he’d curled up under his sail blanket and his eyes sealed shut until the middle of the next day. He might have even snored a little, so strong was his new bed’s hold on him. Opening his well-rested eyes to smug green ones hadn’t been his proudest moment. Mercifully, that’s the only statement Achilles made about it, especially when Patroclus made him a large, late breakfast as a peace offering.

They haven’t spoken about the cliff incident since it happened- part of it is because Patroclus had woken up in cold sweats for a couple days afterward, heart racing as his nightmares flashed in front of his eyes as fast as his life had. He knew Achilles could hear him suffering, hear his stuttered breaths, but he stayed still every night, sparing Patroclus some dignity. Another part is because Patroclus would have to admit that, at the same time, he’d secretly begun to yearn for Achilles to hold him anyway.

He wasn’t sure where Achilles had learned so much tenderness, to soothe him through his choked sobbing without so much as a complaint. Queen Thetis was a doting mother, but she had never been outwardly physically comforting. King Peleus was almost inhumanely placid in his temperament, and Achilles had always striven to strike a pose of strength in front of him. Phoinix? The old man was empathetic, but a bit of a sycophant when it came to the royal family.

As he thinks about it (making sure to watch his step, these days), the faint image holding of a tiny, sobbing boy appears from his memories, hiding in a closet to conceal his broken heart over a pet.

Had he learned from- Patroclus?

An earnest feeling spreads through his body- is it joy? Honor? Perhaps Achilles had been paying more attention to him than he’d thought-

“Patroclus, pay attention to where you’re walking,” Achilles dryly calls from behind him.

The warm illusion immediately shatters, and Patroclus adjusts the jars he’s carrying, continuing on his tasks. He’s finished storing the last of them when a rumble of thunder echoes in the sky. They’ve been preparing for the incoming weather, the normally gorgeous blue sky covered in ominous clouds by evening. There’s something about being trapped in the middle of the ocean, that the clouds are so much larger, making one feel existentially miniscule. It’s also the first real storm they’ve gotten since they beached, the first reminder of the night that irrevocably changed their lives.

The first drop of rain is cool against his skin, the sound of drops against the trees a rush in his ears. It’s simultaneously soothing and scary, and he makes his way inside the cavern before he can get too soaked. Achilles has dug a small, deep pit in the middle for cooler nights like this, where he maintains small embers of a fire. Red light glows from the makeshift hearth against Achilles’ pale skin, and for a moment, Patroclus swears he can see blood covering Achilles’ forearms and face. The prince’s expression is subdued; he's been unusually quiet today. Patroclus is tempted to say something, to shake that unapproachable visage, but instead he shakes his head and lays under his blanket. After a few minutes, he hears Achilles do the same, and he falls into a deep sleep.

One powerful crash of lightning is enough to force Patroclus awake hours later, but it isn’t what sickens him to his core. That comes from the small shivering blanket across the dimmed cavern, the choked, pained whimpers not hidden by the storm. Patroclus thinks back to every night he woke up, the way Achilles allowed him to work through his panic on his own, and wonders if he should just go back to sleep. But then another lightning strike spills light into the space, Achilles flinches, and Patroclus feels himself moving. He overlaps the bedding to Achilles’ left, only barely able to see the pinched expression covered with tears in the darkness.

“Achilles,” he whispers, nudging his shoulder. “Achilles. Wake up.”

It takes a couple more moments, but Achilles’ eyes flutter open.

“I- I’m sorry- did I wake you?” His voice holds concern, but his eyes are far away- perhaps still dreaming of gargantuan waves determined to drag him under, of the fear of losing his only companion to the depths, of isolation in a vast world.

“It’s okay.” He takes a deep breath. “When you were… in the water, it helped to hold someone, right?”

The tearful eyes widen with understanding. Face hot, Patroclus holds his blanket wide open. Achilles wastes no time pressing into the embrace, shoving his face into Patroclus’ collarbone, and grasping around his waist. Patroclus securely covers them both with their blankets, allowing him the chance to weep without judgment. Timidly, he raises a hand to the crown of golden hair, first touching with his fingertips, then eventually running his entire hand through in soothing, repetitive arcs.

“It’s okay. You’re safe. We’re here,” he softly murmurs. It’s strange, Patroclus feels nothing but security in his actions, as though he’d fallen back into a role that was always his. He's warm, he’s alive, he tells himself, helping his own confidence.  

Despite the ongoing storm, Achilles’ shivering eventually stills, his breaths finally slipping into peaceful sleep. One arm cradling Achilles’ head, and the other around his waist, Patroclus isn’t far behind him.

The next morning, Patroclus wakes to see that Achilles has not moved- rather, he’s intricately intertwined with Patroclus, their legs curled around each other’s. The midday sun is shining through the open edges of the moss cover, revealing the way Achilles smiles gently in his rest, content with whatever is behind his delicate lashes. Surprisingly, rather than anxiety or embarrassment from his actions last night, Patroclus feels nothing but peace as he gazes upon him. Perhaps they’ve overcome something that he can’t name, but he honestly doesn’t feel like letting his doubts ruin this moment. He just wants to have this, whatever it is, just for a moment.

But even those at peace can’t ignore the urge to pee.

It takes a bit of effort to extricate himself from Achilles without waking the other, but eventually he’s able to make his way out to the fresh day. Thanks to their prior efforts, no damage has been done to the space, just stray leaves and branches here and there. He’ll sweep them up later- right now, he’s in the mood to soak. The sun is high in the sky, so it’ll be perfect, really. Grabbing what he needs, he makes his way to the one of the deeper sections of the stream.

Everything is idyllic and he’s in such a good mood. He plans what he’ll do for the day with all this energy- sweep, make a meal, go collect more fruit and coconuts. Maybe Achilles will join him, and they can go explore some more of the island. It’s going to be such a great-

“Ouch! Fuck!” His happy thoughts are interrupted when he goes to pull the string out of his hair and finds that it’s tangled deeply within his curls. Frustration quickly builds, as no matter how much he tries to take it out, the rope refuses to detangle. He could have fashioned a comb out of boar teeth at some point, but he just hadn’t thought too much about his general appearance beyond his beard.

His scalp stings, his arms burning by the time he gives up trying. Scowling at his reflection, Patroclus decides there’s only one route left to take. Shrugging, he lifts the machete he brought and starts sawing at his curls, relieved when the knotted sections start to fall into the water. The largest chunk comes out and he tosses it disdainfully onto land. Once he’s done with that, he takes his smaller knife and starts evening it all out until only an inch of soft, thick curls are left framing his face.

It's cooler, much lighter on his neck, and personally- it’s quite nice. He hasn’t had such short hair since he was a child. With the little goatee he’s growing, he thinks he looks quite handsome, roguish, even. If he had panpipes and any talent with music, he could consider himself a forest spirit. He dips under the water, running his hands through the beautifully slick hair, pleased with the outcome. Patroclus rises, then freezes when he hears a heartbroken scream.

“What happened to your hair?”

Patroclus blinks at Achilles, who kneels by the edge of the water mournfully holding his mess of a ponytail.

“Was it because it got tangled? Oh no! I could have helped you if you needed my help, you didn’t have to give it all up…”

Again, Patroclus feels strangely different- instead of feeling defensive, he can’t help but snort in amusement.

“I didn’t sacrifice anything; you’re being dramatic. It was in the way, and it’s just hair. You don’t like it?”

Achilles finally looks up from the pile of hair, and startles as he really sees Patroclus. His cheeks redden, breath hitches, and he blinks a couple times before he starts nodding.

“Yes. No. I mean, yes, I like it! Your new look, I mean. Your old look was really nice too, but this really fits you! You’d look lovely any way you choose!”

“Hm. Good answer.”

Achilles turns away so that Patroclus can get out of the stream and air dry enough to put on his pants. They switch places, Achilles jumping into the stream and scrubbing himself.  

“Can you cut mine as well?”

“Copying me?”

“I mean, it’s a good idea. Mine didn’t tangle the way yours did, but it’s getting entirely too long.”

Achilles’ hair flows between his strong shoulder blades, down his back, and into the water around him like a river of gold. Before he can get too distracted, Patroclus shrugs, grabbing the smaller knife. Achilles comes to the edge of the water, leaning his head back just enough for Patroclus to grab sections of the hair.

“How short?”

“Shoulders.”

A few swipes later, and Achilles’ hair now fringes at his collarbone. He dips under the water to run his fingers through and obnoxiously shakes his head like a dog once he broaches.

“You’re right- it’s much easier to deal with this way.” Achilles reaches for both of their hair, thinking. “Maybe we can weave it into something.”

“What? Like what?”

“I don’t know! I’ll just keep it.”

“You’re weird.”

They finish bathing, and are just starting a lunch of fish, fruit, and eggs when Achilles decides that he wants to do something different today.

“Let’s go swimming!”

Patroclus snorts. “Swimming? Haven’t you swum enough for a lifetime?”

He’d been aiming for subtle, but it lands more like a brick with how Achilles flinches.

“Sorry…”

“No, you don’t have to be. It’s just… well… I’ve been thinking. I always loved swimming when we were back in Phthia. And- last night, when I was scared from the memories, you- you helped me get through it.” The way he looks up from his under his lashes makes Achilles look unusually vulnerable. “I figured, if you could help me get through that, maybe I could learn to love swimming again if you were there.”

It’s so genuine that tears well up in Patroclus’ eyes. He can’t refuse when he’s been asked like that! 

“Did I make you cry?”

“Shut up.”

“Is that a yes?” Achilles puts his plate down and moves closer, batting his eyes at Patroclus who sighs.

“Of course, it is. It’s not like I have anything else to do.” Still, he smiles fondly, and Achilles grins.

“It’s going to be great! There are a couple spots that I’ve found that I really wanted to try, I can take you to one today-”

There’s something else that Patroclus has found himself easily slipping into over time- how freely and effortlessly verbose Achilles is with him. It doesn’t matter what the topic is, how relevant or random, Achilles is enthusiastically ready to tell him about it, and hear what he has to say in return. All these years, and it’s like no one had ever really spoken to him- or maybe they just weren’t who he wanted to speak to. Surrounded by all those people, and yet still lonely.

I missed talking to you, I missed talking to someone who actually wanted to hear what I had to say, rather than entertaining me for favor.

Listening to him was the least he could do- even if that meant to informative things like how to properly maintain a sword with only rocks and a flame, to entertaining silly ideas like ‘Achilles versus the deep-sea volcano monster that he dreamt about after eating bad fish’ while on a walk to a new swimming spot. Patroclus actively listens to it all, still thirsty for the pleasure he derived from the grateful prince.

Achilles’ steps slow when they reach a small clearing, the small, cerulean lagoon gleaming. The trees are heavy with tropical flowers, some even falling into the small waves that splash against the beach. It’s beautiful, something that Patroclus wishes he could paint so that he’d always have it with him.

“It’s wonderful, right? It’s deeper than it looks, too, so you can dive in towards the sides.”

“It is. Great job, Achilles.”

Still, Patroclus bites his lip, and Achilles immediately attunes. “What is it? Tell me. You can be honest.”

“It sounds like you already did this, before bringing me. Wasn’t I supposed to help you get over your nerves?”

Insecurity wavers inside him- he seemed to know so much, had Achilles only been humoring him earlier with his plea? Achilles grabs his hands, squeezing tight.

“I didn’t! I only looked over the edge, I promise I saved this just for the two of us!”

Both of them are red to their roots at this confession, but it’s Patroclus who has to turn away first from the determined stare. If Achilles had just wanted him to come with, he could have asked. He didn’t have to prey on Patroclus’ protective nature. “Fine, Achilles. I get it. Let’s go.”

“Good. Okay!” Immediately assuaged- such a mercurial man! - Achilles moves away to a tree, stripping to his underwear. “Come on!”   

Patroclus follows suit- he could consider himself lucky that both of their garments weren’t so worn that they wouldn’t cover any important bits- and meets Achilles at the high rock he stands on. His heart jumps when Achilles grabs his hand, squeezing it tight.

“We’re going to jump in together, okay? Open your eyes when you’re under.”

The manic look on his face makes Patroclus lean away, and he tries to tug at his hand.

“Actually-”

“Three.”

“I think I’m going to just walk-”

“Two.”

“Achilles don’t you dare-”

“One!”  

Patroclus’ body is jerked after Achilles’; he barely takes a deep breath before icy water envelopes him, shocking his system. As he adjusts to the temperature, a gentle thumb at his eyelid makes him blink open. Achilles’ hair floats around him like a halo, a proud grin on his face as he uses his free hand to point down. A few feet beneath sways sea grasses, the white sand underneath covered in bottom feeding life making its way across the space. The fish seem unused to anything shaped like human beings, some darting for cover, other larger ones swimming past.

They float back up, and while Achilles has the nerve to silkily re-emerge without a stray hair, Patroclus sputters in the water.

“Wasn’t that fun?”

Scoffing, Patroclus splashes at Achilles. “You didn’t even let me catch my breath!”

“I counted to three! Here. Take a breath now, we’re about to go again.”

This time, Achilles expertly swims them both to the sea floor. Once they reach the bottom, Patroclus finds that the sea grasses hide a cacophony of tiny coral reefs, the explosions of color just as bright as his beloved silk shirts far away in Phthia. Nervously, he reaches out to touch a starfish that basks on one of the corals, squirming when it wriggles its limbs. Still holding him, a braver Achilles lifts the starfish up and moves to Patroclus’ face. He screams, and bubbles fly to the surface.

The sun makes its way across the sky, but neither of them notice the passing of time, too busy lost in their own world. Patroclus would have never thought that a small lagoon, full of plants, sea creatures and sand, and one warm, firm hand could keep his attention for so long, yet he swims until he’s exhausted. Achilles finally lets him go, and Patroclus swims to the beach, splaying out in the warm sand. The small waves still reach up to his legs, tickling them.

“You tired?”

“Absolutely. You swim like a fish, where are your gills?” He pokes mindlessly at Achilles’ jaw, who chuckles as he reclaims Patroclus’ left hand. They feel so natural, fingers slipping in between his own, and Patroclus tries not to bask too much in the giddy feeling. It doesn’t help when Achilles switches hands to slide closer, leaning on his elbow to look down.

“Thank you for coming with me today.”

“Of course.”

“And… thank you for everything else. With last night.” Patroclus frowns, but Achilles releases his hand to thumb away at the crease in his brow. “Aw. Don’t frown like that, Philtatos. There’s nothing to worry about now that I know I’m safe.”

That- again! “Don’t- why do you call me that?”

A sly grin spreads on Achilles’ face, forcing Patroclus to look away in a huff. “Call you what?”

“You know what! I know we’re alone and all, but you don’t- you don’t have to humor me that much.”

“Humor you?” Offense drips from his tone, but Patroclus is too much of a coward to look at the result. “Do you really think I would call you- that I would say the things I have to you because I’m desperate?”

Oh no, Patroclus laments. Now I’ve started another fight. We were doing so well, too.  

What’s worse, is that time has worn down on his defenses. Long ago, he’d be able to hear the hurt in Achilles’ voice and only feel a tad bit of guilt before repressing it and moving on, but he’s become so soft-hearted that now his own nauseating emotions are getting in the way! Besides, why did he even ask if his heart wasn’t ready for the answer? So foolish. Shaking his head, he still refuses to make eye contact as he sits up.

“Sorry, Achilles. I didn’t mean to offend you. Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. Let’s head back.”

He can’t even get to his knees before his bicep is sealed in a tight grasp.

“Patroclus. Look at me.”  

“Can we not right now?”

“Look at me.”

“Achilles, knock it off-”

He hears a scoff, quickly followed by an intensely whispered “Fuck it” before he’s been yanked back onto the sand, and Achilles is straddling him. “Just kick me off at any point.”

Patroclus is so confused- is he about to strangle him? - when soft lips press into his, and his mind goes completely silent. One of Achilles’ hands cradles his ear and cheek, the other pressing him down into the sand. When Achilles pulls away, they just stare at each other, and Patroclus is presented with a lightning flash choice. He can slip away, pretend this never happened, avoid any future consequences with his stupid heart, or-

“Gods, you drive me crazy,” he whispers, sweeping Achilles’ hand from on top of his body and rolling them over, surging back in for more. When Achilles takes a deep inhale, Patroclus takes the opportunity to slip his tongue inside, probing tentatively. Perhaps he’s gone too far, virgin that he is, but Achilles is willing, excited even, actively taking control of their dance. Desperate hands claw up Patroclus’ back, pulling him closer and tighter, and in turn he wraps his arms around Achilles’ legs, gripping so hard he might bruise.

“Yes,” Achilles breathes, “yes, finally, Patroclus yes, more-”

The water splashes around them, but neither of them could care less about it, too wrapped up in one another. Fingers wrap in Patroclus’ curls and tighten, eager to touch where they’ve not been allowed in so long. Patroclus moves his lips down to strong collarbone, laving his tongue across it before biting down. The resulting whimpers are enough to make him do it twice, thrice, even more across Achilles’ neck and chest- he even leaves a mark on the claw scars before making his way back to the lips that cried his name.

The first hip thrust is a slip, his body yearning for something more, much faster than his mind had intended. Either way, it makes him freeze, and he places his head to Achilles’ side so that the other can’t see his trepidation as he gasps, groin swirling with desire. It’s not that he doesn’t think it won’t be reciprocated- Patroclus can feel Achilles’ swelling hardness underneath his lustful embrace. But is he ready for that?  

“Let me,” Achilles whispers, chest rising and falling with exertion. When Patroclus nods, they flip over in the sand once again, and Achilles makes speedy work of their undergarments before squeezing Patroclus’ hips and grinding into him. A lascivious moan slips from Patroclus’ lips, his back arching from the pleasure. Purring, Achilles keeps moving, first a slow, teasing roll, but quickly increasing into a needy tempo.

Sounds of heady lovemaking echo across the space, and Patroclus realizes that not only has he been pent up for a long time, but that this is the first time he’s ever heard Achilles make any noise during sex- and he is unabashedly vocal.

“Yes-”

“You sound so good, Philtatos-”

“I’ve waited so long-”

The shameful moans, lascivious whines, and punched out gasps of his name are pushing Patroclus to the edge just as much as the friction, and when Achilles wraps a hand around both of them to stroke, it’s too much. With a slurred cry of Achilles’ name, he comes an embarrassing amount, and Achilles isn’t too far behind him, coming intensely before falling onto the sand.

The ocean makes itself known once more, as though it’s attempting to clean both sand and seed from their skin. Eventually Patroclus stops shuddering, and the magnitude of what he has just done hits him like lightning.

How did he get here? What happened? Is this real? Did he- he just- he just made out with the Crown Prince after years of repressed pining. More than made out. The Crown Prince that he’d despised for so long made him cry out in ecstasy, had his hand around Patroclus’-

“I gotta go.”

The blissful expression on Achilles’ face cracks, hurt soaking his features as Patroclus quickly speeds away to put his pants on. “What?”

“I just- I’m overwhelmed, I need to think.”

“There’s nothing to- Patroclus, it’s not a problem, we-”

Patroclus holds out a hand to Achilles, thankfully covering the reddening hickeys on his chest. “I didn’t say that it was a problem! I just said that I’m overwhelmed. I’ll meet you at home, okay?”

He’s hidden by the deep forest before Achilles can say anything further.

Phlegm thickens in Patroclus’ throat yet doesn’t manage to soothe the searing pain that comes from every cough torn from his weak body. It seems a fair punishment, for the asshat move of running away from Achilles after that yesterday. He’d escaped into the forest, manic with emotion, so when a sudden storm rolled in, he’d had zero idea where he was. What felt like hours were spent in the freezing cold rain trying to track where he’d come from, making it back to the peaceful lagoon that looked like a warzone. By the time he made it within sight of the cave, he couldn’t feel his extremities. Luckily Achilles had come to search for him, soaked and scared, yet determined. Relief had overcome him, followed by exhaustion, and he’d collapsed into his arms.

Every breath is a fiery wheeze, his thoughts barely coherent, and his body burns with fever. Patroclus wouldn’t have held it against him if Achilles had chosen to ignore him, to let him sweat out his own consequences, but he’s been extremely gracious about it. Enthusiastic, even, to be a caregiver to a Patroclus that finally cannot move out of his sight. He brings Patroclus wildflowers to make him smile, keeps him cool with fresh water and a fan, feeds him the proper medicine, even makes him a broth.

(The broth was made out of soaked bird meat and ‘flavored’ with random vegetables, so it wasn’t the greatest thing in the world, even to a man with little to no taste, but he appreciates the attempt and drinks what little he can for energy.)   

“What do you miss most about home?” Achilles suddenly asks him that night, massaging Patroclus’ temples while his head lay in his lap.

“Hm?” Patroclus murmurs, eyes half closed.

“Like, if you could bring the most important things to you here, what would you bring?”

Bring. As in, not go home, but have what he wanted on the island… interesting. If Patroclus weren’t delirious, he might put more thought into Achilles’ clever phrasing.

“A real bed!” he croaks, giggling. “With the fluffiest of down pillows.”

“And here you thought you were too good for the pelt.”

“Shut up. Books. Bread and butter, oh what I wouldn’t give for fresh, warm bread.”

“If I can, I’ll make sure you have all the books and bread you want. What else?”

“Shoes! I’m tired of these thick calluses.” It had taken a month of walking onto bloody feet to adjust. “What about you, Achilles?”

“Hmm.” Achilles thinks for a moment, playfully swaying back and forth. “I agree with you on the bed. Especially if I could hold a certain someone with me in it. Wine. I miss the sweet, summer wines of Phthia. I-” He pauses, growing more somber. “I miss my parents. I hate knowing that they think I’m dead, and yet- no matter how I think about it, I cannot bring myself to regret that I’m here instead.”

He looks down at Patroclus, his gorgeous visage blurry through a fevered lens. “You’ve truly bewitched me, Philtatos.”

Patroclus huffs, too incoherent to stop his loose tongue.

“That again,” he murmurs, fidgeting with his own hand. “I don’t understand it! I don’t understand how you can call me beloved…”

“Ha! I don’t know when you’re more honest- in the throes of passion or sickness. If you could see how lovely you are, feel the way I burn every time I see you, you would understand.”

Manic giggles echo in the room, and it takes Patroclus a moment to realize that it’s him laughing that way. It also explains the heaving pain in his chest, when one cackle turns into a wave of coughs. Achilles hands him a jar of water, helping him sip until he calms down.

“Are my affections truly so unbelievable,” he asks, tone wry.

“Yeah? It’s just, you said you ‘see me,” comments Patroclus, still laughing through the faint metallic tang of blood. “But I haven’t looked directly at you in years- how could I have seen it?”

“That’s fa-”

“I’m not done! It’s not just me, either. That’s the worst part. That’s what I don’t understand. You may not have seen my eyes, but I was still there, Achilles.” Patroclus attempts a big stretch, but his body is too sore for motion. “I was still there,” he whispers, “every time you chose your image over my emotions. I was there, every night that you took a woman into that cursed room.”

He yawns, darkness creeping in. “How could you really see me, and yet never my broken heart? Such a cruel love, of yours. How can I trust you now, when…”  

Patroclus falls unconscious, forgetting the rest of his query as he slips into his own memories.

One of their favorite things to do was play in the private garden. Achilles, aged ten, was determined that he was a “big kid” and that he could do what he wanted- if that meant ending class early to go play with Patroclus, so be it! As such, one day he rushes into Patroclus’ room, grabs his wrist, and spirits him to the front of the maze. Naturally, he and Patroclus have learned all the secret paths through the high rose bushes, giggling to each other as they eventually spring forth to the surprise in the middle.

The grand fountain was surrounded by bushes of bright flowers, including patches of the narcissus that truly loved their own reflection. It’s one of these that Achilles picks out, proudly placing it behind a grinning Patroclus’ ear.

“How did you get your own garden, Crown Prince?”

“It was actually for my mom,” Achilles brags, “but she gave it to me. Dad gave her an even more beautiful garden next to the ocean, it’s got its own small palace and everything! I go there sometimes with Mom when she wants a break from being here in the city, but Dad usually wants me to stay here the most. I’ll have to take you, and we can run up and down the halls. The floors are mosaic, and the ceilings and roofs are painted blue!”

Patroclus claps with excitement, and Achilles flushes. He coughs a couple times to clear his throat, clearly something he’d learned from some older noble in court to suggest seriousness. Patroclus bites his lip, trying to humor him.

“I’ve got something for you.”

“Other than this flower?”

“Psht. Patroclus, I could get you flowers any time you asked. No, this is something special, because I made it.”

With a flourish, Achilles handed him a piece of parchment. On it is two figures that are presumably them but older. Their hair is blowing in the squiggly lines suggesting wind, their bodies large and oddly muscular. Their hands are grasped together in the middle, their free hands holding swords. Achilles’ figure is smiling widely, teeth showing, while Patroclus’ smile is more subdued.

“It’s us when we’re older! We’re going to be great heroes and adventurers, unstoppable!”

It’s certainly something- Achilles is certainly a prodigy musician, more so than an artist, and it shows in the childishly bold strokes and color choices. The most startling part is the giant, garish pink circle in between the two of them.

“Is this supposed to be the sun?”

Upon pointing out the egregious mark, Achilles suddenly flushes so red he looks sick.

“Achilles?”

“It’s… I dropped some paint right there and it looked bad, so I painted it over, but it only got worse! I didn’t have time to repaint it so just ignore it!”

He looks like he’s going to break into humiliated tears, so Patroclus just hugs him tight and thanks him for the gift.

Patroclus had saved that picture for the longest time, keeping it inside his bedside drawer alongside his special things. It was the last remnant of Achilles that he’d thrown away, balling it up and throwing it out of his window. The action hurt his heart so badly that he didn’t sleep that night, choked through his sobs.

Dark bile spills into the empty pot, Achilles harshly thrusting the heel of his palm in between Patroclus’ shoulder blades to get the last of it out of ailing man’s system.

“Breathe for me, it’s going to be okay, there you go…”

It’s been like this for what feels like hours into the dark night, and Achilles is no longer feeling the contentment of caregiving, instead frantically desperate as he dumps the full pot into the ditch for the third time. Worst of all, Patroclus is so searingly feverish that he cannot communicate, only half-conscious as he dangerously vomits up what little liquids he’s managed to keep down. No matter what he tries, Achilles can’t wake him properly, so he’s constantly running back and forth, praying that Patroclus hasn’t choked on his own insides.

He finally succumbs to frustration as he tries to pour a little liquid down Patroclus’ throat, holding him upright and watching as half the water slides down his chest. His eyes burn with unshed tears, close to pouring over.

“Fuck, fuck, I just- I don’t know what to do anymore!” he frets, voice tight with anxiety. “You’re the doctor, not me, you’re the one who really knows how to care and plan and- and take care of things and people you love and I’m terrible at it, I need help…”

Cradling him from behind, Achilles slumps over Patroclus in exhaustion. Patroclus, finally asleep, whimpers pitifully, and Achilles is choked with guilt.

How could you see me, and yet never my broken heart? What a cruel love, of yours. I just don’t understand…

“Please don’t die here. Please don’t. I’m so scared… We’re finally here, I’ve finally reached you, I just started making up for so many wrongs, please don’t leave me here, not now, please…”

Everything began to fall apart when he was thirteen.

No, that’s not fair- Achilles began to ruin everything when he was thirteen, him and his stupid mouth. It was after that damned ambassador dinner. He’d been foolish, arrogant, and extremely pleased to cut off the whispers around them questioning thoughtful, gentle Patroclus’ intelligence. He’d figured, he was Crown Prince and Patroclus was his chosen companion; everyone should know that and treat him as such upon proclamation. Simple problem, simple solution.

Instead, he’s trying to hold back tears of frustration as his parents lay into him about what he’s done. He’d been swept into his parent’s decadent bedroom and immediately beset by them, shattering his confidence.  

“I don’t understand,” he sobs, face searing red. “I spoke nothing but the truth! Why are you reprimanding me? Was I just supposed to let them mistreat him?!”

Thetis is just as flustered, chest heaving from the back and forth between stubborn mother and stubborn child. Peleus, exhausted by the tense interaction, pinches his bridge and sighs.

“Look, Achilles,” he gently begins. “You’re not in trouble. What we’re trying to tell you is that it was not good timing. You’re still young right now, so you may not understand the politics of it all, but you cannot simply bestow the Crown’s favor so rashly. At best, people will understand you and back off, but at worst, you could have made Patroclus- and therefore yourself- a target by unknown parties. Neither of you have been adequately prepared for this sort of situation, and I’m willing to admit that this is a fault of mine for spoiling you for so long.”

Achilles only scowls at the floor in response, and Thetis huffs in exasperation before turning to face Peleus.

“Then what exactly are we going to do about this, husband?”

Peleus sighs again, then straightens his posture. “Tell the truth. We’re going to tell them that it was playful confidence of a child who knew not of what he spoke. It will pass.”

Livid, Achilles stomps in fury. “But I did know! I know who I chose, and it’s Patroclus! Why is that something childish? Why are so worried about those faceless peons opinions’ anyway?”

“Achilles!”

“Those faceless peons,” responds Peleus, nose flaring with anger, “are politically important men that are the backbone to our family’s control of this country, and you will show them the respect that they are due! Truly, I’ve spoiled you rotten for you to be so lackadaisical about your future responsibilities over your people. Perhaps it’s not a good idea for you to sit with Phoinix and Patroclus in lessons any longer, maybe you need more focus.”

Achilles pales in horror, any words he was about to say sucking back inside the pit in his stomach. This isn’t what he wanted at all- why is his father acting like this?

“No,” he whimpers, turning puppy dog eyes towards his mother. Thetis’ expression tightens into a pained grimace, and then she kneels down low, holding her silk laden arms out. Achilles rushes towards her, grasping her large, beautiful fingers in a silent plea. She carefully scans his features, trying to understand why he’s so distraught, and for a moment, Achilles brightens- Mother understands.  

“I’m not truly angry at you, my child, I just don’t understand why you are so fervent about this boy, unless… wait… Achilles, has he been untoward with you?”

Achilles expression slowly falls in disbelief. “What?”

“Has Patroclus been manipulating you, pressuring you into things he might want- perhaps asking you for favor, for station?”

“Mother!”

“My queen, my love, I’m sure it’s not that-”

It’s too late- a worried Thetis has whirled herself into a frenzy. “Gods, I knew that something was up when the servants told me that you were gifting him so many things! Has he tried anything else with you? Isolating you? Touching you? Anything that’s made you uncomfortable, cornering you, perhaps making claims of love in exchange for sexual favors?! If he has done anything to my baby, I’ll whip him to death myself, I knew we shouldn’t have brought him here-”

Furious, Thetis rises to her full, towering height and sweeps away, ready to find a soldier to drag Patroclus to the infamous dungeons. She’s stopped by desperate hands grasping at her skirts, Achilles kneeled to the ground as he wraps around her legs.

“Stop! Stop it! Mother, that is not what is happening!” he screams in sheer panic. His chest is scalding, his throat constricting, head spinning, but his hands refuse to loosen. “It’s not! Leave him alone, don’t hurt him, it’s my fault for tonight, he didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Achilles, you’re going to rip my- okay, okay! Okay, Mommy believes you, but if he does anything else, makes one suspicious toe out of line towards you, I’ll have him punished and permanently banished from this palace! So, you just make sure he- Achilles? Sweetheart? Oh no, he’s struggling to breathe! Call the royal physician, he’s passing out!”

The next morning, Achilles wakes in his bed, evidence of his earlier fit on his nightstand in the form of a jar of pills, a fan, and a cloth in a small bowl of water. Everything that happened the night before rushes into his mind, and a prickling cold fear settles into his bones that none of his feather-filled duvets can comfort.

From that day on, Achilles makes it a point to distance from his best friend, both physically and in temperament. In lessons he hardly makes eye contact as he speaks to him, swallowing the pain like glass as Patroclus slowly pulls away. One day, Peleus makes good on his promise to place Achilles in private leadership lessons to prepare him for the future. Achilles eerily complies, closing his ears and avoiding all mention of the other boy if possible- it makes his heart pang with anxiety and something else he can’t identify.

It all hurts, and Achilles hates this so much, that his once unbounded confidence has been so polluted. What used to be genuine, carrying himself in front of the looming court and their expectations, feels more and more like an act with each passing day. Still, he continues- he cannot allow anyone to hurt Patroclus, he can’t do anything that might trigger his still worried parents, which might make anyone think that Patroclus should be removed from the palace, or worse. He'll explain when things are safer, he tells himself every night as he curls under his blankets. He’ll give Patroclus anything he wants, he’ll beg his forgiveness, but right now, he has to take the more responsible route and make sure their footing is secure.

And then, that happens.

Achilles wakes in the middle of the night, breathing heavily, sweat covering his entire body. He tries to move, but the uncomfortable stickiness of the result of such a heady dream remains on his undergarments, thick and unavoidable. Flushed to his roots, he shoves the covers down over his lap and shouts for the guard outside to call for the royal physician. The portly man is quick to arrive, followed by an entourage, and Achilles demands that everyone else leave his presence at once.

“How can I help you, Crown Prince?” the doctor asks, bowing low before sitting in a chair.

“W-what I am about to t-tell you,” Achilles glares, “stays between us.”

His attempt at confidence fails, and the doctor shakes his head. “I apologize Crown Prince, but I am bound to inform your parents of your health if it is something dangerous.”

It’s humiliating, and Achilles wants nothing more than to dismiss the untrustworthy physician and sneak to the baths. Unfortunately, it’s too late- he’s going to report this anyway, and Achilles knows that the doctor may still be usefully knowledgeable.

“I- I had an incident…” he begins, fidgeting with his fingers, and the physician only takes a moment to understand, his eyes flashing down to Achilles’ lap and back up to his flushed face. He smiles proudly, the wide maw making Achilles feel viscerally seen. It’s even more uncomfortable when the man grasps his hand, hot and sweaty despite efforts to be comforting.

“Oh, Crown Prince. Of course, I can explain what’s going on.”

Achilles is forced to sit in his own mess as the man goes ahead into a lengthy drone about his changing body, growing up, and a bunch of other things that surely could have waited for the morning if this truly wasn’t an isolated, dangerous thing.

“In summary,” he mercifully finishes, “it just means that your heart and your body is ready for the blossoming of a young lady.”

It’s at this that Achilles, half asleep and irritated, jolts back into awareness. He knows what he saw- who he saw- in his dream, and it was not a young lady.

“What about…” he takes a deep breath and goes for it. “Young gentlemen?”

To his dismay, the royal physician frowns momentarily, thinking his answer through.

“It’s not…impossible to be interested in a young man, no. Just keep in mind that as a Crown Prince, one day you will have to marry a young lady and sire heirs that will continue your blessed bloodline. But if you have dalliances with people alike, there is no issue. You are a prince; you may have who you choose.”

But they told me I couldn’t, Achilles wails inside his mind. What was the point of all this if that was true? I’m so confused…

“Well, I don’t have any experience in the area, but I know this for sure- to maintain your dignity as a man, you must make sure to be the dominant partner.”

“The what?” squeaks Achilles, and the royal physician’s cheeks redden.

“You know, to be the one that… gives, not receives. You should be in control of the scenario. Our culture is much more supportive of a man that conquers.”

Achilles shudders not unpleasantly as a heated image flashes in his eyes; his back pressed against a wall, squirming underneath a tight, brown hand that rushed awkwardly but effectively, gasping in pleasure. He knew innately that he had not, in fact, been the ‘dominant’ partner, nor had he wanted to be.

“Please leave,” he finally whispers, stunning the physician.

“But-”

“Do I need to speak again?” The imperative is much stronger this time, and with a yelp, the man bows deeply before vacating his room. He summons the guard once more. “Tell the servants to run me a bath. I need to think.”

As he soaks in the softly scented water, Achilles comes up with a new plan. While he’s not sure about all the dignity mess the doctor was talking about, he is sure that he wants to maintain his dignity in front of his parents and the court who will inevitably find out about his body ‘changing’. He takes a hand, reaching it to his throat. His voice has begun to crack at times, a symptom the doctor warned of. A hand, here, here, and here, all places that have begun to stretch, lengthen, and grow. It’s a sign of aging, and yet it fills Achilles with a sense of dread and loneliness. He once had someone to talk to about things like this, but- well, no, how could he? Hey, Patroclus, I dreamt of you taking my pleasure, have you too, started to grow? Absolutely not.  

Thus, the only other possibility is to take some more space, and function as everything is perfectly normal. It is with this intent that he strides into his mother’s private chambers the next afternoon. Thetis reclines with her lovely ladies, bedecked in her royal jewels and a light blue summer dress that blows in the warm breeze. The ladies kneel when he enters the room, and scurry when Thetis waves them away. Achilles makes his way forward to receive a gentle kiss on his forehead, before pulling a chair near to her recliner.

“I’m always so happy to see you, you know? I remember when you were born, it was a beautiful day like this…”

“Mother, please.”

She giggles, relaxing back into her cushions. “What brings my beloved son here today?”

“Mother, I would like for you to schedule a hunt for me with the other aristocratic youth.”

Thetis raises an eyebrow. “Interesting. What brings this on, dearest?”

“I’ve been feeling…frustrated, lately, and I think I need to get it out somehow.”

He can’t help but flush a little when she smiles knowingly- clearly the physician has got to her.

“Aw, my baby. You’re growing, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’ll get your hunt; I’ll have people start planning it right away. I like to see that you’re taking an interest in building relationships amongst your real peers, the classes with Peleus have been such a good influence. It will matter later when they become your trusted companions and allies.”

Achilles forces his smile across his face. “Quite.”

And that’s all there is to it- by the time the hunt rolls around, Achilles hasn’t seen Patroclus face to face for a couple months, but he also hasn’t had any more of those dreams. The servants scramble around the group of wealthy teens, trying to pack any last-minute provisions, tighten any saddles that need tightening, performing any other minute tasks that need doing.

The other boys laugh amongst themselves, even trying to bring Achilles into their jokes and conversations. He plays along, smiling, joking, laughing at the right time, trying to hide the fact that he can’t remember the majority of their names. Things must be going back to normal because no one can tell the difference in his demeanor, delighted that they are ‘entertaining’ the Crown Prince.

The drawbridge opens, and Achilles is the first to spur his horse across, relieved at the sight of the verdant green fields and distant forest. It’s as if he’s breathing freely for the first time in a while, and he tilts his chin up, hoping to see the magnificence of the palace, and freezes. All at once, everything comes rushing back into his heart.

Oh no, he’s still so beautiful, is Achilles’ first thought upon seeing Patroclus after so long. Thick, luscious brown curls blowing in the calm wind, sun gleaming off his bronze skin, caramel eyes still so soft and yet so sharp. At fifteen, he has grown more than Achilles- he’s taller, the first signs of stubble on his lip and chin. He slowly raises a hand to wave, smiling gently. If it had been any other scenario, Achilles might have found himself scrabbling up the wall to meet him.

One of Thetis’ words from earlier unwittingly comes to him- beloved.

Huh?

Why did I-

A teasing voice cuts into his reverie, glancing up at Patroclus. “He’s looking at you like a loving maiden. Why don’t you blow him a kiss, Crown Prince Achilles?” Aristocrat Boy #1 was being overly comfortable with him, but his words quickly bring Achilles to heel.

No, he can’t look like that, I can’t look like this, they’ll see, he might be gone by the time I get back or worse-

Fixing his face, Achilles nonchalantly glances at his peer. “As if.”

As the entire group cackles in earnest, he shoves down sickening guilt and rides away without looking back. I’m sorry! It’s just another thing to explain, he tells himself, one day he’ll understand.

To his delight, the hunt does its job- he works out much of frustration during the hunt, his muscles and mind tired enough that he falls asleep every night with no issues. By the time he comes back, his parents are also delighted with him. Peleus applauds him for hunting the largest bucks, which will be used for a sacrifice and the rest for a court feast. After this, he will be leaving to another kingdom. Thetis pinches his cheeks, then tells of her plans for a sabbatical to her sea-side palace after the feast, offering to bring him along. Achilles refuses, realizing that with both of his parents out of the palace, the perfect time has arrived to speak to Patroclus in private.

Upon his return, he’d taken a glorious bath, prepared to relax. His shock, then, upon seeing a servant woman wearing a necklace he’d once gifted Patroclus had been enough for him to launch himself up in the tub, sending the poor woman in a full 180 toward the door. Demanding to know how she got it, she meekly explained that Patroclus had given away many gifts to the servants.

“We’ve all heard of his disgrace in your Highness’ eyes; we simply figured that he had been commanded to give away all you had gifted him.”

“Disgrace?”

To his horror, Achilles learns that the court had taken the distance between he and Patroclus as displeasure. Rather than dispelling the rumors of childish closeness or worse, they’d simply been directed towards Patroclus, and sanitized by the time they reached his own ears- if they reached his ears at all. The worst part is that, when he walks out underneath the third story window where he knows Patroclus’ room is, he finds a balled-up piece of parchment on the ground. He goes to unravel it, and his heart painfully squeezes at the edge of pink that he can see- he can’t bring himself to look at the rest.

For multiple, agonizing hours, he searches tirelessly for Patroclus. Library. Kitchens. Gardens. Baths. Pharmacy. His room. Five, six, seven times, his bedroom. Even at the feast, full of music, raucous laughter, and loud conversation- those wide, observant eyes are nowhere to be found. Achilles hardly eats, he’s grown so stressed.

That morning, Phoinix meets him in the receiving chambers- since his parents are gone, the responsibility of greeting any guests and managing any minor issues that arise has fallen to him. He will have the old advisor’s help, plus that of his advisor in training, and Achilles eagerly awaits the chance to see Patroclus. No matter what the issue was, he couldn’t refuse a royal summons- he had to show up.

“Where was Patroclus yesterday?” he asks Phoinix, who can’t control his grimace in time. “Phoinix?”

“Your Highness,” Phoinix quietly begins. “Patroclus has asked to give up his position by your side.”

…

……………

“He wants to quit?”

“Yes. He thinks that-”

“No. Final answer. Have the servants bring him here at once.”

“Your Highness-”

“That is an order!”

When Patroclus finally arrives in the receiving chambers, it’s like a blast of blizzard cold wind. He offers a quick, cool greeting before moving to stand by Phoinix’ side. His entire demeanor, Achilles realizes, has changed. Gone is the sweet, encouraging, kind boy he once knew, replaced by someone hardened, quiet, and yet unusually yielding. No matter how much Achilles tries to start a conversation with him, the boy will respond obsequiously, shortly, or simply leave for an ‘errand’ before Achilles can even speak!

He refuses to look at him at all.

A few hours into this new arrangement, Achilles is furious and insulted. Why is Patroclus acting like this? It’s not like it was Achilles who said all of those things to him! If he’d known how much Achilles went through just to make sure he was safe and could remain at court, he’d realize that a couple months of rumors were nothing! Fine then! If this is how he’s going to be, they don’t need to be friends anymore anyway! Not to mention, it could be considered treason to toss away his image so callously, and yet Achilles isn’t even going to bring it up- he’s being gracious anyway!

Days turn to months, months turn to three years, and the burning indignance he once felt at the rift between him and Patroclus has blossomed a deeper sense of worry. Everyone around him has asked him to replace his sullen advisor, but he refuses. As much as the ice between them hurts, the idea of losing Patroclus hurts worse, because Achilles knows that if he allows him to leave, he’ll never see him again.

He’d thought that by now, whatever anger they had at each other would have thawed. He’d long gotten over the original insult, but Patroclus has held steadfast to his new position, to the point where Achilles has been forced to adjust to their new dynamic. Worst of all, he’s too afraid to reach out first; as of late, Achilles has noticed the extra pairs of eyes following him. They report his every move, not only to his parents, but also every foreign dignitary arrives with knowledge of ‘word of the Crown Prince’.

The best he can get out of Patroclus is this negative attention. He cannot simply bestow gifts anymore- they are either rejected outright with a silvery explanation or taken and then found in the hands of the servants. Achilles plays along, discovering some motion forward by disguising the gifts as commands. No longer is he ‘gifting’, no, it’s obvious that Patroclus needs to do the things. New clothes? He needs them for his job. New books? Surely you need to study to keep up with the learned Crown Prince.

He'd thought he’d emerged the victor in this fight, until he finds more and more servants wearing the leftover beautiful fabrics or rejoicing over coin. Other than following his exact words, Patroclus is still giving away his gifts. Everything is replaceable. Achilles truly means nothing to him anymore, just another mythical, generous figure in the rumors that now constantly swirl around him.

It leaves him utterly sick.

One hot summer day, near his seventeenth birthday, it all boils over. Some days are worse than others, the weight of the loneliness and isolation from all the watching eyes wearing on the prince. He can’t even try to pleasure himself in peace, for fear that the entire court will end up finding out about his fantasies. When he threatens Patroclus with the knife, his pent-up heart is raging with emotions that he’s not allowed to name.

That night, he dreams that he’s in the receiving room, bare back on his desk, being taken over and over at the whim of the cold advisor he just can’t seem to let go.

Dream-Patroclus had approached him slowly, allowing Achilles to take in all his glorious features. He’s so much more handsome, jaw sharpened, beard neatly trimmed and softly curling. His hair is tied in a neat ponytail, voice deep, velvety, full of gravitas despite the rarity of its use. Achilles still cannot see his eyes, as though the dream simply cannot fathom what they might look like. Patroclus had flipped the small knife, Achilles’ small knife, over and over until he was so close that Achilles had to back away into his desk. Patroclus tossed it onto the table, still not looking at Achilles.

Kneel, he’d commanded, and Achilles had fallen to his knees like a puppet whose strings were cut. The dream was both satisfying and frustrating, in that Achilles doesn’t know what Patroclus feels like anymore, can’t imagine what he looks like there. And yet, his mind fills in the blanks just enough for him to glide his tongue across something, savoring the way it makes him feel to finally have what he secretly pines for.

By the time he’s been stripped and laid on the desk, he’s throbbing with desire. Again, he only vaguely knows what something like this might feel like, but he still writhes with pleasure as he takes, over and over. The floating heads of the court surround the desk, judging him as he curls his legs tighter on the shoulders that support them, crying with each impact, but he cannot bring himself to stop. He wants, he yearns, and he’s finally getting what he wants.

He wakes with the orgasmic sigh of release, and despite being four years older, Achilles still can’t help flushing at the mess. Near tears, he shoves his fists into his eyes. He can’t take it anymore- this tension, the weight; something has to give to stop him from having such lucid dreams about a man that doesn’t love him- a man that despises him, even. The night of his grand birthday party, when the majority of the palace is asleep from drunken debauchery, he calls Phoinix to his chambers. Long gone are the days of thinking the royal physician would be trustworthy.

He cannot look Patroclus in the face and ask for this sort of help.

When he explains his issue, Phoinix seems pleased- again, what is with these men thinking that a creepy smile is the correct way to respond?!

“To be frank, Crown Prince, I never thought you’d ask. Your father has been worried.”

“Father? Has this happened before?”

“Of course! He had taken his first maiden to bed by fifteen. We didn’t want to rush you, but it is a relief that you are finally reaching this point in your life.”

Okay…? “So, can you make it happen without it getting around the court? I just want to handle my urges and be done with it. There’s been so many eyes following me, always reporting everything I do, and it’s driving me insane, Phoinix. I fear I’ll crack under the strain. I might toss myself off the side of the palace.”

It fills Achilles with a deep-seated rage and sadness, that somehow in order to have any sense of privacy and safety in his own life, it had come to this. Luckily, Phoinix is old, wizened to the ways of princes.

“I understand. I can talk to your parents, make sure that Peleus’ agents are chasing away the ones watching you. In this, he will understand and make sure you have full privacy. The court will know nothing.”

Achilles pauses- could it really be so easy? “Then, if I asked you to do something for me without their knowledge, arrange a meeting place for me to meet with someone specific, would you agree?”

Phoinix sadly shakes his head. “My loyalty is first and foremost to His Majesty.”

Naturally. Disappointed, Achilles waves him away.

That first night, Achilles is led to the secret chamber donned in loose clothes and a dark cloak. Phoinix explains to him the scenario- how he will meet the ladies, how much time, and how he is to send them on their way. There will be a discrete guard in front of the door, and another further down the hall in case of an emergency. When they reach the room, someone cloaked is standing in front of it, and Achilles’ heart jumps when he sees familiar curls.

Does he know? Has he offered himself? I wasn’t ready! How joyous!

Another cloak, this time a maiden, steps out from behind Patroclus, and Achilles’ mood dims. Oh.

And then- is Patroclus going to be the one outside the door?!

It’s almost bad enough to drain the lust right out of him. Almost. The dreams keep happening, but lately he doesn’t finish, so Achilles is so on edge he could explode. When the doors close behind him and the lady, Achilles is close to panicking- he’d read the books, the physician had taught him how sex worked, but it was an entirely different thing to actually perform. It seems like his indecision is unnoticeable to the maiden, who takes it as a silent command to take the lead and boldly service him.

I’m supposed to like this.

The first time, the second, and every time afterwards, this is what Achilles tells himself. Soon he becomes bolder, more knowledgeable of what he’s supposed to do, but usually he allows the ladies to take control. One after the other, they do their best, satisfying him on a physical level, but hardly reaching his mind. It’s not enough for him; he’s got a strong libido and a stronger imagination, and it almost always takes the thought of a certain man to get him over the edge. Achilles bites his tongue each time, knowing that if he speaks, if he allows himself to fall to pleasure, he might just call the wrong name.

The last time he’d had a girl, he’d switched up the routine. As the girl cleaned up, took her coin purse, and made her way out, Achilles had followed her to the front door. She’d only barely scratched the itch he had, but he hadn’t wanted to insult her for something that wasn’t her fault. Now, if Achilles had been smart, he would have taken the singular opportunity that arose from the private room. But he wasn’t being smart, he was being horny- one regret amongst a long list. Achilles attempts nonchalance, leaning against the door, burning gaze turned toward Patroclus.

“Are you perhaps interested in sharing?”

He’s too much of a coward to ask the real question, would you like to join me in here one day, because he’s sure Patroclus would refuse if approached thus. Achilles just wants to see that side of Patroclus outside of his dreams. It doesn’t even have to be inside him, he burns so much, he just wants to see the way he might look, the way his dick would-

“No, Crown Prince. It is…an honor to be considered. Please excuse me, Crown Prince.”

There’d been a twitch of his jaw, as though annoyed at the thought, and Achilles couldn’t bring himself to ask again. Of course not. Patroclus was notoriously untemptable, avoiding bribery and women alike. How stupid of him.

(If only he’d known how much that broke Patroclus that night.)  

The day he received the news of the betrothal near ended him. At least with the other women, he’d never have to worry about any issues. Somehow, he’d not managed to impregnate one, which he was sure was handled by his mother, who was only barely okay with the whole idea. With the Princess of Scyros, her letters were constant, full of sentiments and love for a man she’d never even met. He hardly returned anything to her, other than basic courtesy, and still she badgered.

He fully empathizes. The permanence of marriage has finally unlocked the word he’s never wanted to admit, made everything shake into place the way he’d wanted so long to avoid. He’s been so stupid, stupidly in love with a man he’s never done right by. Patroclus will never love him again, the sensitive eyes have been closed off to him for seven years while he’s been playing mind games, and there’s nothing he can do about it anymore.

After tossing the letter in the low fire, Achilles pulls his desk open and removes a crinkled parchment, thumbing gently over the still vibrant pink spot. He’s smoothed it as much as possible, kept it dry and in darkness, so it’s well preserved. He laughs painfully at how ten-year-old Achilles had thought that his excuse of spilled paint was so clever, sneaking Patroclus a heart without him ever knowing.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, but then again- he’s supposed to marry. Sire heirs and all that. How else was it ever going to be? The night before he set sail, he’d outwardly reveled with the court, drank with his father, hugged his mother so tightly as though he were leaving for a long adventure and not just a week’s journey. He silently cried in the bath, washing away the tears.

And then, he’d seen Patroclus smile up high in the crow’s nest. That beautiful, wondrous rare smile, followed by those wide, hopeful eyes that had been off limits. He’d been free to be himself amongst the sailors, no need for a façade. Having Patroclus accidentally hear his feelings had been a bit terrifying, but in an exciting way- there was no one to run and tell the world about it.

He missed being able to speak to someone openly, and he’d thrown it away because of childish embarrassment. He’d sacrificed fearlessness and love for acceptance. Duty, as Patroclus always called it. Relishing in his rare freedom, Achilles couldn’t help but think- if he could just have a little bit more time, a little privacy for just the two of them from the world that always had its eyes on them- even if he couldn’t love Patroclus, he could at least mend things with him. What he wouldn’t give for a chance like that.

When he jolts awake to the strangely empty cavern, Achilles momentarily thinks things are back to normal- Patroclus is somewhere doing his morning chores, he’s not back in the high court preparing for another day of excruciating self-repression, they’re both safe. Then he remembers the exhausting night before, and shoots to his feet. Bright light sears into his lids when he pushes away the covering, blinding him.

“Patroclus?”

Silence.

“Patroclus?”

“I’m here.”

The sluggish breeze carries the whispered admission to Achilles, revealing Patroclus’ soft outline against the light. He’s staring out into the calm horizon, the sea unusually still beneath the sky. Relieved, Achilles makes his way to his side and clings around Patroclus’ waist, chin to shoulder. With a quiet snort, Patroclus gently places a hand on one of Achilles’ arms.

“I was worried you’d fallen somewhere,” Achilles murmurs. He still gets jitters from the first time.  

“You didn’t look very far, then- I was right in front of you.”

How apt. Achilles squeezes a little tighter. He’s surprised that Patroclus hasn’t pulled away yet, but if he’s feeling vulnerable, Achilles is all too willing to accept the comfort.

“There’s another bad storm brewing.”

“How can you tell? It’s beautiful out.”

Patroclus pauses. “The wind, I suppose. Remember, the day before the storm, it was also beautiful. The next day, it was still; the air was sticky. The seas were calm too.”

Achilles isn’t sure how Patroclus managed to remember any of this - he just remembers it being stiflingly hot. Still, he’s not going to deny him- he’d rather be prepared than not- and tugs on a loose, brown curl to distract from the memories of after.

“Let’s go get you cleaned up, then.”

Grimacing, Patroclus lets Achilles lead him to the stream, saying nothing as he washes the sweat and grit from the previous night from his body. Soon he looks clean and rejuvenated, even laying his head in Achilles’ lap to let him resume his scalp massage. The subtle purr of pleasure as Patroclus leans into his grip warms his heart, and Achilles wishes he could do this every day for the rest of his life.

“Thank you,” Patroclus murmurs, turning his head so that Achilles can properly press into his temple.  

“For last night?”

“Yeah. To think, I made the prince lug jars of my vomit back and forth. It’s unfathomable, really.”

“It was a little gross, but consider us even, after you dragged my limp, bleeding body up a beach while starving to death.”

Patroclus cackles, closed eyes crinkling with his grin. “Agreed.”

For a couple minutes they simply linger, the peaceful sounds of running water and birdsong balanced by the rhythmic, soothing movement of Achilles’ fingers.

“So… you still remember much of last night, then?”

The grin slips from Patroclus’ face. “I do.”

“Do you-” Achilles steels himself. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly, but I know we need to.”

Achilles’ heart near shatters when Patroclus firmly peels his fingers from his scalp, wading just out of reach. He cannot see his expression, only watching as Patroclus lifts one nervous hand to his upper arm, fingers twitching as he grips it. Emotions bubble inside his chest, rising from his throat as panic.

“Honest as ever- I can’t fault you. I understand if it’s hard- gods, I shouldn’t have brought it up right now, you’re just over an illness. I’m messing things up again, right? But I was just- I felt like we reached something last night, and… I don’t know what possessed me to say it, I guess I’m trying to- fuck I’m rambling… What- what do you need me to say, what do you need me to do, I’ll do it, I know it’s selfish of me to want this from you right now, but I’m-”

“Stop. Just…stop.”

Patroclus’ eyes flash at him, sharp and deadly like ice. Achilles bites his lip, trying not to let the hot tears fall as he fills with uncertainty. Their gazes lock, the weight of the silence pressing down on their heaving chests.

It is Patroclus who finally cracks, turning around with an aggrieved sigh.

“Okay. Fine, but I don’t want any more apologies, Achilles. Not at this point. What’s done is done. What I want are answers to my questions. Not- don’t interrupt- not right now, but tonight, when we’re not focused on anything else. Despite every instinct in me telling me that I’ve been too lenient with you, that this is my last chance not to let you in, that you’re just going to disappoint me if I do, I… stupidly, I want this. I at least want to get over everything.”

Patroclus is finding that the only thing shining brighter than Achilles’ beaming smile is the sun, and flustered, he turns back around to shield his eyes.

“I’m giving you a second chance, and in exchange for that, I need you to tell me the whole truth. Not what you think I want to hear this time, not the pretty answers you’ve always wanted to say, but the entire truth. Is that okay?”

Achilles flushes down to his roots, but earnestly nods in agreement.

“All right. Let’s go prepare for this storm.”

If Achilles’ footsteps are lighter than they normally are, pattering around as quickly as his own heartbeat, Patroclus chooses to ignore it.

The storm roars outside, exactly to Patroclus’ prediction. By the time they’d barricaded themselves inside, the wind had completely stopped, the humidity thick and sticking to their skin. The fire burns low, its warmth finally comforting rather than suffocating, its orange glow throwing mysterious shadows as they sit across from one another. It’s a little unfair of Patroclus, making this seem like an interrogation, but it’s the only way he can properly compartmentalize what’s going on- he’s already being vulnerable enough!

Lightning flashes, followed by a barrage of thunder, and Achilles flinches, tightening his cover. Still, he refuses to fully cower, determined to hold himself up high in front of Patroclus. It’s too much guilt, too much preciousness, and Patroclus has truly become a pushover- he pats the spot next to him on the furs.

“Sit right there, cross-legged, facing me,” he commands, trying to sound like he’s not weeping on the inside. Patroclus folds his arms, trying to maintain his aloof look. Achilles gives him a puppy dog pout, eyes darting down to his hands, and he groans before holding his hands out. Warm hands tightly grasp his own, and despite his strongest intentions he already feels more content.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.” Achilles’ grin is adorable, and Patroclus finds himself squeezing his eyes shut in defense. It’s not cute, it’s not cute right now! We have something to do, you talked all that shit earlier today, let’s get to it!

“My first question- what happened that night after the dinner? You changed that night- what made you distance yourself from me?”

Achilles swallows, and the memory slowly unfurls from his tense chest. The ghost-like mourning of the wind makes it sound like he’s begun a scary tale, rather than a confession.

There’s a certain horror Patroclus feels for his naïve, fifteen-year-old self, finding out that he was one severe panic attack away from being whipped near to death and tossed out from the kingdom. He’d thought it was bad enough being shuffled away from Achilles; to think that Thetis could think so low of him… No, that’s not fair- she was a parent worried about her son. It’s a hard pill to swallow- Achilles had truly defended his life that night, long before the beast on the beach.

“And so, your plan to keep me safe involved trying to keep me out of the way?”

Achilles nods, head low, and Patroclus scoffs in upset. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There were eyes, everywhere, at all times, waiting for me to slip up. I didn’t want to risk it, putting you in any harm’s way. I just figured that it would blow over, and then I’d be able to explain it to you. Everything was fine, I thought, but then-”

Patroclus waits, eyes darting away and back. “But then?”

Achilles makes an odd peep, head sinking lower.

“Achilles, you said you’d tell the truth.”

“I know but it’s…”

“It’s what?”

“I don’t really want to tell you…”

Voice small, Achilles groans. He snatches his hands from Patroclus’, placing one on his hip and the other at his temple. He mutters something unintelligible, and Patroclus scowls.

“Just spit it out!”

“I had a wet dream about you!”

It hangs in the air for a moment, quickly enveloped by mirthful giggles that Patroclus can’t bite down.

“It’s not funny.”

Patroclus continues to chortle. “I know but, it’s just, your face is absolutely hilarious right now.”

Tomato red, Achilles looks like if he could bury himself in his cover, he absolutely would. But that would mean looking away from those sparkling caramel eyes, and that would be worse.  

“Whatever. Can we move on?”

“Fine, what happened after that?”

Achilles’ burgeoning struggle with his sexuality sounds hard to believe at first, but upon further reflection, perhaps it’s just because he’d never had to deal with that sort of pressure. Demoted from a prince, Patroclus had been lucky to be unimportant enough that no one cared about heirs or ‘dominance’; he can’t imagine how hard it must have been thinking that your bedroom habits were somehow the entire business of the kingdom by age thirteen.

“So, you really chose to sit there in your own-”

“I remember it well! You don’t have to say it again!” Achilles pouts, trying to glare it him and failing. “Stop snickering! Surely you experienced something like that by that age!”

It’s a plea for slack. “I mean, it wasn’t anything on a level like that. I don’t even remember what I dreamt of; I just woke up surrounded by mess. I was really lucky that the servant collecting the sheets that day was the old washerwoman, and she explained to me what happened.”

Achilles is baffled by the simplicity. “That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

“She didn’t talk about- liking boys, or-”

“I mean, I didn’t bring any of that up, but she was also tired and had a job to do and wasn’t entertained by a little boy apologizing for ‘peeing’ the sheets.” It’s not pee. It’s come. You’re getting older and your body is changing. It happens. I’m too old to be having this conversation, I have grandkids, and I have work to do. Go on somewhere. “I had to do the rest of the research on my own.”

“You didn’t tell me about it.”

Patroclus flushes. “You certainly wouldn’t have told me about it at the time! Besides, you were still eleven. It was big-boy stuff.”

“Tsk- ‘big boy’. How did you even know you liked boys? Was it-”

“I liked you, and I’d never liked anyone else. By the time we fell out, I was aggressively against falling in love. Just the thought was undesirable to me. The Phthian Royal Court was toxic anyway; I guess if I felt that way, I can see how you would feel even more uncomfortable.”  

It’s refreshing to be honest about it, and from Achilles’ happy blush, Patroclus knows his small confession has been taken well. By the time Achilles comes around to the day of the hunt, Patroclus’ humor has subdued. It throbs like an old scar, to hear confirmation that the aristocrats around Achilles were mocking him and his station, his adoration and devotion so easy to see. At the time, it had been a raw, festering wound.

“You rejected me that day. You’ve told me that it’s because you were worried about how people would perceive us, but… did you feel anything? Was there even a moment that you thought about doing something different?”

“Of course, I did! You were so lovely, and for a moment I felt like throwing everything down and rushing to your side. But I felt like I couldn’t… it’s so stupid, but I was a stupid kid struggling with my own identity, and I convinced myself that I was doing all of this for us, rather than just because I was too scared to face facts. And then by the time I was ready to talk to you, to explain why I did it… you didn’t want to talk to me anymore. You wouldn’t even look at me.” Achilles smiles sadly. “I can understand your fury now, but at the time I thought I was equally injured by your frosty disposition. For years I held onto that self-righteousness, thinking that it was just as well. Even if you were going to be a jerk, I was still protecting you because I was the better person.”

He pauses, long lashes fluttering. “You threw away our picture. The one that I’d given you. It was just a stupid picture from when we were little, but it hurt so fucking much- it was like you threw my heart away.”

Patroclus knows exactly the picture. “You still remembered it?”

“I still have it. It’s at home, in my desk. Crumpled up, despite my best attempts at fixing it.”

It’s a strange, nauseating mix, the spread of both warmth and culpability. “So, you really knew you were in love with me? The whole time?” It’s both a question and a statement.

“I knew it, but I shoved it down. I couldn’t feel it, couldn’t acknowledge it. I told myself that as long as you were nearby, there was always a chance we could mend things, and that’s all I needed. We couldn’t be lovers, but I could still love you without…loving you. It’s dumb, right? But I was naïve- it was so difficult just getting you to even stick around. I know I told you that you were playing my game, but I’m being honest, I was always playing yours.”

Achilles goes into detail about how for years, he’d had to both learn and outplay the intrigue around them, while balancing their own back and forth. Patroclus realizes that all the excruciating eyes he thought were on him were a mere entertaining glance in comparison to the scrying gazes they had on the Crown Prince. The entire time he’d just dismissed everything he heard as spiteful rumormongering by a jealous aristocracy at worst, and yet there’d been an entirely different game being played behind his back. He’d really been nothing but an unknowing pawn in a trap meant to catch the Crown Prince lacking, to show a weakness to his kingdom and those abroad. It is both humbling and humiliating to find out that the court he held himself so high above, he’d really behaved no better than.

“Honestly, you were a bit of a vindictive asshole,” admits Achilles, grinning as he finally lets it off his chest. Patroclus snorts, willing to concede his shame.

“That makes two of us, then.”

Achilles scoffs, but lets it slide. “So often, I had to defend you to the court without making it seem like I was in love with you. ‘Why won’t you get rid of that boring, icy retainer of yours? He doesn’t enjoy parties, he doesn’t enjoy ladies, he doesn’t respect you.’ I knew they just wanted to be closer to me, to remove you and your influence from the board altogether, and they couldn’t understand why I wanted someone around so… presumably unlike myself.” He pauses to run a hand through his hair, mystified.

“Craziest bit is all my answers were honest. Not only did you serve as the only effective, trustworthy barrier between them and me, but you were also superior in your work. Not even Phoinix could be fully unbought. I don’t know how you managed to make everything perfect without cavorting with a single member of court- perhaps it was your naivete, but the entirety of the Phthian Royal Court could take lessons from your integrity.”

“Trustworthy?”

“You might have been a jackass, but you were always honest. I could always trust you to do right by the Crown, if not by me. Losing you would have been a blow to my soul and my position. You know more about the logistics of running my household than I ever could. Years later, I still don’t know that boy’s name. Truly, you were so crucial to my life, and all you kept trying to do was run.”

Pride burns within Patroclus, though it’s somewhat tainted by the idea that he was unwittingly serving as Achilles’ rook the entire time- they’d been protecting each other in a strange dance of spite and trust.

“Maybe you could have told me that. I worked very hard to be that good.”

“You were working hard so that you could quit- that, I could tell. It terrified me- the thought that you were so excellent that one day my father was going to take you away, send you somewhere as an emissary. When my father told you to serve in an ambassadorial role to Scyros, the look on your face confirmed everything I feared. I just knew that if I let you go, you would never come back. I couldn’t risk it.”

It's not the first time Achilles has mentioned this. Now that he thinks on it, Achilles has often expressed his fear of loneliness and abandonment, specifically involving him. “You could have always sabotaged me?” Patroclus suggests.

“I would never- both of us wouldn’t have wanted that, no matter how much you think you did. If you were only being mocked by the court in secret and it hurt you, you would not have wanted to be exposed when it was straightforward. Not only that, but even if you had messed up- and I know this sounds bad- I still wouldn’t have let you leave.” An ironic thought seems to catch in Achilles’ head. “You certainly almost sabotaged yourself that day in the receiving room with that sharp tongue of yours. I was very, very close to either slitting your throat or taking you on the floor. Either would have cooled the constant burn in my blood.”

It wasn’t Patroclus’ proudest moment, looking back. “I was hoping you’d fire me. Both of those reactions seem more like you.”

“You tempted me. Always, always tempted me. I don’t think you realize both how gorgeous and invigorating you are, and how teeth-grindingly aggravating you can be when you’re passive-aggressive. It’s a hard line to toe, when you want to fight and fuck someone at the same time, every day. The dream I had that night- you pushed me right over the edge.”

Hearing the reaction to his stubborn behavior blasted back in his face is quite humbling for Patroclus, whose shoulders are now reaching his burning hot ears. To think- this whole time, all he’d had to do was just speak to Achilles first, and maybe they wouldn’t have been where they are now… But then-

“Soon after that, you started taking women. Why?”

“I was pent up. I never- you know, ‘released’ any of the energy I had- I was too afraid that someone would walk in or know what I was thinking about. I was so ashamed to have the thoughts I had, especially with the state of our relationship. It got to a point where I felt like I was going to jump off a roof with agitation. I couldn’t have you, the one man that I knew would rather eat raw flame than ever lie with me. It was only ever supposed to be the one time, but Phoinix told me that my father had done the same- that it was expected of princes to behave like this. I didn’t want it getting around what I was doing, so I asked for privacy.”

“What? Why didn’t you ask for us to have privacy?”

Achilles shakes his head. “I did. My parents would still know- loyalty to the Crown, and all that. I didn’t want them to know. I just wanted to have something with you that everyone else didn’t have- I think I realize that now, and why it took me so long just to even have this conversation. I wanted true privacy, an impossibility in Phthia. For it to just be us, and only us- even if you didn’t return my feelings, you wouldn’t have run and told the entire court. I thought it was you, that first night. But naturally it wasn’t. And so, I settled on everyone other than what I wanted.”

Memories come flying back of those excruciating nights having to stand guard outside of that door, and Patroclus’ fists tighten.

“Did it mean nothing? That while you were being pleasured, I was outside that door forced to hear it all?” He doesn’t realize that he’s crying until Achilles leans forward, thumbing the tears away.

“I won’t lie and say I wasn’t seeking pleasure, but it wasn’t for them. They meant nothing. I had to think of you, every time.”

Patroclus’ hands fly up to grasp Achilles’. “Huh?”

“It was your name I wanted to call, your skin that I wanted to feel on mine. No matter how many times I took a girl in that room, it was never their face that I wanted to see. But I couldn’t call for you. I only tried the once to invite you inside, but I was a coward.”

“You-” Breath hitched, Patroclus freezes. “You tried- you mean that day when-”

“Yes. It was awful of me, and I regret it. Every time I think of it, I know why it was so impossible for you to love me. How could you love someone so selfish, who only thought of their own pleasure and their own ends? I didn’t take a moment at all to think that maybe, while I was dreaming of the Patroclus I wanted, I was hurting the one I had.”

“By the time the proposal came from Scyros, I felt like it was too late. There was no point in admitting how I felt, but I just wanted to see- if I’d seen anything in your eyes that said you might love me, that I could still fix what I’d broken, maybe things would change. But all I saw was a reflection of my own actions.”

Do you think you have the right to pity a Prince?

Nonsense, my Crown Prince. I would never pity you.

Patroclus had known that he was annoying Achilles, but he’d never thought that he was breaking his heart. They really had been playing spiteful games for years, all to no avail.

“I was ready to die inside and accept it all. Marry that clinging princess, perform the same meaningless act I’d practiced for years for the sake of a child I wasn’t ready for, and accept that I’d ruined my relationship with the one person I ever wanted to love.”

“What happened?” whispers Patroclus, gripping his hands once more. Achilles lowers his thumb to his full lips, pressing softly.

“I saw you smile. Heart-stopping. All those bitter years, and it hit me in that moment that I hadn’t seen your real smile in so long. It was like falling in love all over again. It was silly, really- it changed nothing that happened between us. You still hated me, I was still arranged to be married, it was all still falling apart- and yet for a moment, I remembered why I’d loved you the whole time.”

“And then the storm happened. And you saved me.”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t need to ask why- Achilles has already explained it to him and knowing everything he knows now only adds context. Patroclus settles on something else instead.

“We’ve been here for so long… why were you being so patient with me to get it? Why didn’t you just tell me at once?”

Achilles can’t stop his loud laugh of astonishment, a loud sound completely at ease despite the tempest outside.

“First of all, you were a scrawny, starving ball of stubborn pride that didn’t want to listen to me until we almost got mauled! But really, after you yelled at me that first day, I had to go and collect myself and my thoughts. I’ll be honest, it was the first time I was in complete silence in my entire life. I think I liked having the space and opportunity to think, to really understand and come to grips with how I was feeling. It was also a little bit of spite, to make you realize that you would miss me if I was the last person on Earth. I didn’t think you’d be down that bad when I found you.”

Patroclus huffs, turning away, but Achilles playfully tugs on his hands.

“Besides, it took almost a decade for this wall to build between us. I wanted to give you time- I thought it was only fair.”

Time? “You were willing to wait a decade for me to get over myself?” He speaks with disbelief, but Achilles is earnest.

“I would have waited a lifetime, if it meant one day, you’d return my feelings. And you did- slowly but surely, you started to thaw, to trust in me again. I loved it so much, watching you blush and scoff and make things difficult, but listen to me and have faith in me anyway. All those expressions, frozen for years, suddenly like a complex kaleidoscope. I loved it. I didn’t want to-”

“Risk it. Yeah, I know.”

“The other day on the beach, I let my control slip. I don’t regret it.” Achilles turns away for a moment, looking deep into the gleaming charcoals. “You know, you’ve never asked to go home.”

“What?”

“The whole time we’ve been here, you’ve complained, griped, and grumbled, but once we settled in, you’ve never once acted as though you wanted to leave my side. You worked with me, side by side. Did things for me because you wanted to, not because you were my subordinate.”

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t want to leave,” Patroclus mutters, flustered. Achilles is right- he’s become entirely too comfortable with their pattern. He hasn’t even once considered escaping, of returning to Phthia, but he always put that down to the sickening feeling of having no one missing him. He’s not once considered how Achilles might have a lot more to yearn for, to miss, than he ever has. It fills him with shame, and his head droops.

When two gentle fingers lift his chin, he jolts to attention with a sharp inhale.

“Please just look at me while I confess, Philtatos. After that you can look anywhere you like, I swear.”

It’s hard not to be stilled by the calm, content expression on the prince’s face.

“I’m happier right now than I’ve been in my entire life. If I never had anything else in the world, if I had to spend the rest of my life sleeping on furs, drinking stream water, and struggling through these damned storms with nothing but a torn sail, I would do it if it meant that I could do it by your side. You are worth so much more than I’ve ever made you believe, and I want to spend the rest of my life showing you how wrong I was. It’s a little frustrating that it’ll be with conch shells and the larger portion of fish rather than silks and rare gemstones, but I’m so happy that I can still try.”

His voice is so soft, so genuine, and Patroclus can’t help the river of tears that break free. It’s a bit gross, the way he sniffles and his chest heaves- they couldn’t both be graceful criers, he supposes. Achilles is patient with him anyway, letting him cry for the lonely child that long dammed his emotions with anger and indignation, hiding his heartbreak and confusion beneath an icy exterior and a pointless battle of pride.

“You’re so stupid,” he sobs, falling into his own hands. “I don’t want gifts, you wonderful fool; you keep trying to give me things and that was never going to fix anything. All I’ve ever wanted was for someone to look forward to me, to want me around, to love me shamelessly. You- you used to do that, treated me like I was like the world in your eyes when no one else would even care to look my way. For you to turn away and publicly reject me so cruelly and for so long, I just- I couldn’t take that. It was easier for me to just close myself off, to pretend that I didn’t need anything to be okay, and for so long it was all so empty.”

“It’s hard to hear this now, especially because I want to believe you so much. You’re right. I’m happier too. I miss things like soft beds and baked bread, but I still only feel like I’m at home with you. I’m at peace, with you. I love that we’ve learned to work together, built a life, hell I’m so gone for you I’m ugly crying in front of you. And it’s not just now; whenever you’re not around I keep thinking I might cry.”

“I don’t talk about going home, because if we ever do… everything will go back to the way it was and I can’t accept that. That’s what I can’t risk, is knowing how you feel, just to have it all torn away from me again. It’ll all mean nothing in the end. I have to suppress things, I have to compartmentalize, because I can’t protect my heart otherwise-”

His sobbing rant is interrupted by an emphatic Achilles.

“Let me do it.”

“Do what?”

“Let me protect your heart- this time, the right way then, the way you need to feel protected. I will never again act as though I am ashamed of you. I will never break your heart again, I promise.”  

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I will always be by your side.”

“Achilles-”

“From here until I die, I will always choose you.”

Cover abandoned, Achilles is practically straddling Patroclus’ lap, his hands firmly wrapped on either side of Patroclus’ face, and something inside Patroclus throws caution to the wind.  

“Just kiss me already.”

Their lips taste of salt, the last of Patroclus’ tears of anguish combining with Achilles’ fresh tears of joy. Patroclus’ hands waver behind the small of Achilles’ firm back, still unsure. A thin string of saliva separates them as Achilles sucks lightly on his tongue before pulling away, pressing the hands tightly against his back and hip.

“Philtatos, you make me ache in ways I didn’t think possible,” he whispers, salacious grin curling on his lips. “Don’t keep teasing me, now.”

Blood rushes to Patroclus’ head and groin, skin glowing red under the russet. “I- I don’t-”

Love has made Achilles bold, because he trails one finger down to Patroclus’ chin and lifts his gaze. “Tell me.”

That molten gaze somehow manages to vanquish all of Patroclus’ shame. “I’ve never done anything like this,” he breathes. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

The low, lascivious laugh he receives for his honesty only hardens him more, and he tightens his grip.

“Yes, hold me, just like that,” growls Achilles. “Don’t worry, love. I know what to do.”

Without breaking a sweat, Achilles leans to his side, reaching for one of the last bottles of salve. He pops off the lid, the shining gel-like liquid now made erotic in ways it’s never been. Patroclus blinks at it, then back at Achilles who thumbs at his own underwear. Trance-like, his hands move down to the garment and slide it off, revealing a perfectly curved ass and a rock-hard member that is pearling at the tip.

Swallowing, Patroclus peels his glance away. “You’ve done… this before, then?”

“No!” It’s a jarring enough question to snap Achilles out of his heated daze, and right into mild embarrassment. “Some of the women were…more adventurous with me, than others. It helped, when I wanted to- to imagine you…” He clears his throat. “Never mind that! You’ve never read into this sort of thing?”

“I’ve read the rare dirty story, imagined what I might do, but I’m sure it’s not like the real thing.”

“‘Dirty story’, you’re precious.” Confidence returned, Achilles ponders for a moment, tapping his full lips seductively. “I’ve got it, then.” He leans forward, slowly crawling up Patroclus’ chest until his knees are at either side of his pecs, his dick laid right in between them. “I want you to ask me something.”

Heart pounding so fast he’s sure Achilles can feel it there, Patroclus slowly blinks. “What?”

“Ask me what types of things I dreamt about.” His voice is low, ravenous, sea-green eyes glowing with desire. Confusion swims around in Patroclus’ head until it clicks- oh. Very interested in this new game, Patroclus leans back a little more on his elbows and grins.

“Show me what you dreamt about.”

Achilles’ eyes flash, and he playfully huffs. “Obstinate as ever. Luckily, the first thing I’ve dreamt of is dealing with this coy tongue of yours.” He grabs himself, dragging it up Patroclus’ throat and to his lips, tapping them. A pink tongue comes out, laving up the tip before wrapping around it. It pulls a throaty groan from Achilles, who takes the opportunity to wrap his fingers in thick curls and push a little further in.

“Yes,” he sighs, watching himself slide in and out of the slick mouth. He increases the speed of his pumps, just enough for an undulating pace. “You’re doing perfectly. So good. Gods, I’m trying not to come already, not after I’ve waited so long for this. You’re perfect, so perfect.”

When Patroclus moans, throat vibrating around him, Achilles lustfully smiles. “You like it when I praise you? I can do that. I can tell you how lovely your lips are around me, how a flick of your tongue could take my soul right now.”

The grip around his waist tightens, and Achilles reaches for the salve.

“I need you to help prepare me, okay? The jar is next to you- you’ll have to feel for it- good job.”

The first two fingers are hard to take, and Achilles grunts with the entry. Patroclus slows at the distress, but Achilles shakes his head.

“It’s fine. Just curl your fingers a little, slowly spread them every now and then- ah, you’re a quick learner, okay- Keep going, please. I need it. I need you. Ah, yes-”

Minutes later, Patroclus can tell from the quickening around his fingers and the salty liquid saturating his tongue that Achilles is close. Stilling his motion, he takes his free hand to squeeze around Achilles’ base, popping off. The small, pleading whimper in response travels straight to his own dick, which is so uncomfortably hard and unattended that he might cry.

“I didn’t think you’d be such a greedy lover,” he says, trying to hide how desperate he is with sass. It doesn’t work- Achilles only takes a hand and slides it down the top of his underwear and gripping him.

“Oh? Is there something you wanted?”

“On me,” he whispers hoarse with yearning, immediately forgetting his plan. “Right now.”

Teasingly slow, like he wasn’t just mewling inside Patroclus’ mouth and around his fingers, Achilles finally pulls down the constricting clothing. Instead of doing as he asks, Achilles kisses up his thigh, gripping the muscles. He plops in his lap, wiggling mischievously.

“Make me.”  

It’s enough to jolt Patroclus, who blinks in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

Still causing trouble, Achilles grabs Patroclus so firmly that his dick jumps, and lines it up with his hole. He sits, just a little, but not nearly enough for the friction Patroclus needs, and his fingers claw into the fur beneath him.

“Make me,” pleads Achilles. “I want you to take me, I want to scream for you. Let go for me the way I want to let go for you- please.”

With one final lick of his lips, Patroclus lets go. He lifts his hips, pulling Achilles down at the same time. The snap is so sudden that Achilles does scream, breathy moans so loud that the island would ring with them if there wasn’t a downpour. When Achilles falls onto his chest, Patroclus wraps one arm up around his shoulders, keeping one at his waist, and begins to thrust. It’s a little confusing at first- he’s unsure how to brace himself- but once he starts moving, pleasure quickly rewards him for his effort. Loud slaps echo in the space, peppered with blissful cries of yes, there, ah, fuck, more-

Bracing himself on his elbows, Achilles leans in for a sloppy kiss. It’s difficult, between each perfect roll of Patroclus’ hips and Achilles’ fervent desire to meet him in the middle. When he pulls away, Patroclus follows, rolling them over. Achilles’ arms and legs quickly wrap around his back, allowing Patroclus to continue his onslaught, his body exceedingly confident in the face of such a grateful recipient. Things ratchet up further when Achilles, enraptured with ecstasy, accidentally claws his fingers down Patroclus’ back.

He's about to apologize- it must hurt, the way Patroclus flinches at the contact- when Patroclus leans away from him. The moment he’s about to speak, Patroclus’ hand comes to his throat, pressing at the sides. Achilles is caught, pinned down in front of a firm, dominant gaze, and his eyes roll back in his head when Patroclus resumes, Achilles’ legs bobbing up and down with impact.

“Yes, yes, oh fuck, I can see it, I can see them- fuck me in front of them-”

“Them?” grunts Patroclus, still trying his best to keep his pace. There’s a small part of him that’s smug at his endurance- he’s truly become much stronger than he was when he arrived.

“Them, the court, I always dreamt you’d fuck me on the desk, right in front of their faces- ah-” Achilles’ swift breaths are interrupted with a loud cry- Patroclus must have angled his last thrust just right. Encouraged, he continues, shuddering at the keening prince beneath him.

“Yes, yes, fuck me, take me, let them see, let them, ah, yes, yes, YES-”

With one last impact and a loud rapturous cry, Achilles unravels beneath him, his legs twitching as he comes all over his chest. Patroclus tries to let him go, when a shaking Achilles leans up into his embrace.

“Not just me, you too, come for me Philtatos, I need it...”

Still crying from his own sensitivity, he rides Patroclus so hard that Patroclus can’t help his own pleasured moans, crying for his prince.

“My name,” Achilles demands. “Say it, say it-”

When he finally comes, Patroclus is so far gone he momentarily whites out, bruising the pale skin with how hard he’s holding on, before going limp altogether. Exhausted, they collapse onto the furs, still embracing each other. Heavy breathing fills the cave, already thick with sex.

“The storm slowed,” Achilles whispers, cuddling underneath Patroclus’ chin. “But I feel so fearless right now that I could go dance in it in all its fury.”

Looking at his freshly cleaned body the next morning, Patroclus thinks the only thing more mortifying than his own marks is the evidence of his desire all over a sated Achilles. Apparently, he’s a really good lover- both gentle and rough. They’d had to bathe twice that morning, just because the prince couldn’t get enough of him.

At least no one else is going to see this, he thinks.

He’s planned on surprising Achilles with something special from the shore, perhaps a new conch shell or something of the like.

He wasn’t expecting this.

“Patroclus? Is that you?”

The tan, freckled face blinks at him as though he’s seen a ghost. The blood drains from Patroclus’ face as he beholds the first visage other than Achilles in near a year.

“It’s me,” the man says, bright smile forming on his face. “You saved my life that night!”

It’s hard to remember everything that happened between the darkness, rain, waves, and wind, but a memory rises of lifting a terrified young man with a broken leg onto a lifeboat, encouraging him despite his own overwhelming fear. It still doesn’t thaw him from his frozen position, nor shakes the man’s name to memory.

“It’s been a long time,” he rambles, “so I’d understand if you didn’t remember my name. It’s Antilochus! I’ve spread your name far and wide- you’re my hero! Thank you so much for having faith in me when no one else was willing- I’ve been able to do so much more with my life; they let me enter the court and I help with inventory in the food stores, which isn’t exactly what I want right now but-”

An exasperated “Boy, who are you talking to now?” comes from somewhere in the forest, sending another jolt of lightning through Patroclus. Just as Antilochus turns to call behind him, Achilles arrives from the forest behind Patroclus.

“Philtatos, what’s going-” Upon seeing Antilochus, he also freezes, though not before placing a protective hand on Patroclus’ arm. Antilochus turns around, still smiling and gasps dramatically when he sees Achilles, followed by a rushed, sloppy bow onto the forest floor.

“Crown Prince!” he wheezes, unaware of Achilles’ flinch. “I- you were dead, too! And- and you’re both clearly together now- how absolutely wonderful! Congratulations! Oh, I just can’t believe this!” He rises, holding his hands up. “I’ll bring everyone here; I really can’t believe this!” He runs into the foliage, excited volume slowly dimming.

An urgent voice slides into Patroclus’ ear. “We can run right now, Philtatos.”

“What?”

“Before that man comes back, we can hide. We know this terrain better than they. If you don’t want to go back, if you’d rather stay here, we can run right now.”

Concerned, Patroclus turns back to Achilles, who’s now gripping both his arms. “You don’t want to go home?”

“It’s not about what I want. Wherever you are, I’ll be happy. I’ll follow you to the end, I promise.”

If he’s being honest, Patroclus is tempted to take him up on the offer. All his fears have arrived on this island, ready to drag them back to civilization, ready to split them apart. But Achilles’ promise of safety tempts him as well- the idea that they could go back home to comforts and have this love no matter where they are… Perhaps if the boy- Antilochus- is any indication, they may be received even better than he thought. Finally, he exhales, hoping he’s not making the wrong choice.

“If you break that promise, I swear I’ll break your spirit.”

Achilles chuckles, hand falling to intertwine with Patroclus’. “Feisty as ever, I see. May I die a thousand miserable deaths then, all by your hand, if I fail.”

They wait apprehensively, hearts pounding, as Antilochus’ voice comes back into range, exclaiming the ‘surprise’ he’s found. Reactions of shock, fear, and delight spread as the men see their long-lost prince and his retainer, instantly making their bows. One is the most important, and Achilles can’t help whimpering as Peleus, worn face aged from misery, gasps upon seeing his deceased child.

“Achilles… Achilles, is that you?” he wheezes, slowly stepping forward. When he’s just within arm’s reach, his hands raise, gently landing on his son’s tearful face.

“My boy,” cries Peleus. “My beautiful baby boy.”

Without letting Patroclus’ hand go, Achilles falls into his father’s tight embrace, shoulders shaking with emotion. Everyone around simply stares down in silence and respect, trying to hold back their own tears. Patroclus can’t help but lift Achilles’ hand, gesturing toward the king. Nodding, Achilles lets him go, so that he can fully hug his dad. Unfortunately, that means Peleus has to lean away, and finally zeroes in on the bruising around Achilles’ neck.

“Where- where did these marks come from?” His eyes narrow in anger at Patroclus, of whom he’d almost taken into no account beforehand. “Did he do this to you?”

Patroclus’ soul near leaves his body, jaw dropping at the immediate sharp sound of many unsheathing swords. He’s not sure what’s worse- the nauseating embarrassment at his decision made in passion being discovered by the King himself, or the acrid horror of being powerless come rushing back. He’s almost willing to be murdered to never face this moment again when Achilles yanks away from his father, raising his machete in a defensive stance in front of Patroclus.

“You will not touch him,” he hisses, near glowing with a vicious fury. Stunned into submission, the men fall back, eyeing Peleus with uncertainty. The King, quick-thinking as ever, raises his hand. To Patroclus’ eternal gratitude, the wise man analyzes the situation without a word, and a small blush rises to his cheeks.

“Ahem,” he coughs, waving the men’s weaponry down. “Well. I want all of you to go back to the ship and prepare provisions for my son and his friend, as well as our meal for tonight. I should like to see how my child has been since I last lay eyes on him.”

It’s a pointed command for privacy, and the men quickly retreat to follow orders. When Antilochus is the last to leave, with a bright thumbs up toward Patroclus, Peleus’ shoulders fall.  

“We have many things to discuss. Achilles, you can rise from your stance- I swear, no one is going to harm Patroclus.” It’s the first time he’s acknowledged Patroclus’ presence without edge. “Hello, Patroclus.”

Remembering himself, Patroclus bows low. “Hello, your Majesty.”

Still suspicious, Achilles grips onto Patroclus’ hand, blatantly in the sight of his father. Peleus simply waves in random directions, smiling awkwardly.

“Lead the way.”

Patroclus tries to let go of Achilles again, years of training forcing him back into habit- it’s sacrilegious to walk in front of the King. Regardless, he finds that Achilles will not let him go, tugging him closer every time he tries to move further behind. As such, it’s a silent walk all the way up to the cavern, Patroclus staring back in fear and apology multiple times. Achilles has thankfully cleaned up, the thick smell of their morning activities gone, their furs clean and the space emptied of all of their provisions. Achilles explains everything he can about what they’ve collected. When he points to the furs, he starts the story from his battle with the first beast on the island, resulting in his scars. Love and pride are clear in every word.

Peleus calmly listens and observes everything with a keen eye, nodding every now and then, smiling to himself. Every now and then he glances thoughtfully at Patroclus. When Achilles finishes, he gestures towards the ground- to offer a King the ground, truly they’ve been brought low! Peleus humbly sits, reaching out to his child once more. Achilles wavers, looking at Patroclus.

“You missed him, and he’s missed you,” Patroclus whispers, nudging him. “Go ahead.”

Smiling, Achilles rushes to his father’s side. Sensing that they need privacy, Patroclus rises, going to find a fresh jar of water to offer. It’s hard for him to stay still really; it feels like he’s intruding. For quite some time father and son murmur fiercely to one another, foreheads pressed close. It pains Patroclus, just a little, knowing that there’s no one who will miss him so deeply. Every time he sneaks a glimpse, his heart burns and he looks away.

Finally, after he’s wandered around the campsite so many times the light in the sky has fallen low, Achilles waves him over to tell him what he’s learned. Peleus had been on a mission to another country when the storm near crashed their ship. Luckily, they’d managed to change direction, and instead of crumbling under the will of the sea, the ship had simply veered off course and into this empty island.

“My son tells me that you saved his life, many times over,” offers Peleus, smiling warmly at Patroclus, who flushes.

“Oh no, your Majesty. Ach- the Crown Prince actually saved my life first, that night, when he dived after me. I wouldn’t be here without him.”

“There would have been no reason for me to live without Patroclus.”

The emphatic tone stands strongly in context to Achilles’ earlier quiet mutter, as though he’s simply stated the weather and not pledged his life. Peleus frowns, lifting Achilles’ head from his side.

“You’ve always been strangely over-attached to Patroclus, child. Is this… relationship due to being here together for so long? I can understand that perhaps it got too lonely for you both…”

Each word pierces Patroclus like a well-aimed dagger- strange, over-attached, lonely- cracking into his confidence, when Achilles quickly stands, firmly wrapping his arms around Patroclus’ waist. Security spreads warmly, anchoring him to earth.

“Enough, Father. You’ve always been a wise King, but your words are thoughtless and cruel, and I won’t allow them. It’s not a passing fancy, it’s not desperation. I’ve been lonely my entire life because I haven’t been able to love him the way I wanted to.”

“Achilles-”

“Father, I’m not a child anymore- listen to me, please. I may be impulsive, behaved very foolishly even, but loving Patroclus will never be a mistake. It is both a choice I am actively and wholeheartedly making, and yet falling for him was as inevitable to me as the dawn and dusk. I love him, I have always loved him, and I am determined that I will love him no matter what. I hated the Phthian Royal Court. I hated how I had no right to make any true choices for myself without worrying about anyone’s input. I was miserable when I was to marry Deidameia, but I tried to do it because I thought that it would please you, Mother, and the court. If I could go back in time, I would refuse. I would have told you all that Patroclus holds my heart and soul, and that if you did not care for that, I would accept any consequence. I would beg at his feet for forgiveness. Everything I’ve ever done has been to shield him, and to please you. No more.”

Smiling so genuinely it reduces Patroclus to tears, he nudges their foreheads together and rubs their noses.

“Making him happy and standing by his side are the only things I need in my life, and I feel free to say that now. I love you, Father, and I’ve missed you dearly, but if that’s not something you can accept, I simply ask that you continue to pretend I’m dead. Leave us here or drop us off somewhere in a town where we can start a new life together, but I am unwilling to return to a place that will not let me own my own heart. I’m only here in front of you right now because of his graciousness.” 

Patroclus quietly sobs, and Achilles pulls his face into his neck. Peleus gazes upon them, first in alarm, then confusion, and finally, fondly.

“You’ve been the apple of my eye your entire life, and I’ve always made it a goal to make sure you were happy and healthy,” he muses, “yet this is the happiest I can ever remember seeing you.”

“Yes.”

“And you, Patroclus?”

Patroclus snaps to attention. “Yes, your Majesty?”

“Do you return my son’s feelings?”

Still sniffling, Patroclus nods. “Yes, sir. I always have. I’ve always loved him, but I placed duty as my highest priority. No matter how I felt, I made sure I worked my hardest for him-”

“I’m not asking you about your work ethic, my boy. I’m asking if you love him.”

Patroclus flinches- it’s fair, there’s no dodging it. “Yes. Yes, I love him, I love him so much. I agree with him. I would rather die than go back to the court and have to gaze upon him from afar any longer.”

Achilles pouts playfully, squeezing Patroclus’ cheek. “Aw, Philtatos-”

“Oh, stop it,” huffs Patroclus, pushing his hand away.

Peleus thinks for one more moment, then he stands, dusts himself off, and holds out his hands. Achilles grabs one, and Peleus raises his brow at Patroclus, flexing his other fingers. It makes Patroclus’ chest jump, first in fear, and then for joy as he timidly takes the king’s warm hand.

“I just found my son again, and not only that, but I found him safe, healthy, and loved. It is a blessing that you’re alive, and there’s not a thing in this world that would make me leave you both behind. I cannot promise you that the court will be as accepting as I am, but I am determined to better support you. You were always meant to inherit my throne, Achilles- I shouldn’t treat you like you are incapable. I’m sorry that I haven’t been paying attention. Still, it is my honor that, though I was not perfect, that I’ve managed to raise such a fine child.”

He turns to Patroclus, leaving Achilles to smile bashfully.

“As for you. Your intelligence and demeanor have always befit the prince that you should have been, the royal blood in your veins- who better for my son to fall for? I admit my wife and I have not always been the most understanding of you, and I want to apologize on behalf of the both of us. If Achilles has such love and faith in you, far be it from me to question it.”

Squeezing their hands tightly one last time, he lets go and makes his way toward the edge of the camp.

“We set sail back toward Phthia tomorrow, and I fully expect that you be ready when we do- this means full clothing.” He pointedly looks at Achilles, glancing at the marks. Achilles only presses his chest out further. “Whatever you need to lay to rest here in your well-built camp, please do so. Dinner and your tent will be ready by nightfall. Everyone will need rest.” His last sentence is pointed at his son, who knows exactly what he’s referring to. “Now, excuse me- I have letters to write.”

Without any pomp and circumstance, Peleus makes his way back into the forest, simply the confident stride of a king who’s never stepped out of place. Perhaps the man truly was blessed by the gods, that he’d never once gotten lost or had misfortune befall him- even his lost son had been returned. Either way, they’d been given the benevolent king’s blessing, and it’s enough to make Patroclus and Achilles nearly dance with joy.

The next morning, Patroclus and Achilles say their final goodbyes to the beloved island that had gone from their prison to their paradise. It had been entirely too difficult for Patroclus to say goodbye to everything he’d grown to love in their makeshift home. As such, the furs, fishing net, and machete have been packed to come along with as keepsakes, memories of what had been both the easiest and hardest time of his life. Achilles had made the stunning suggestion to Peleus that they simply claim the island as an outpost for Phthia, and that he’d like to build a home on it officially.

Peleus had simply shrugged, so happy to have his son back that he offered to mention it to the court upon his return. After much thought into the deal with Scyros, he’d decided not to re-pursue. Future heirs are simply now an ‘Achilles issue’, one not too difficult to solve but also no longer his business. Other relationships were strong enough to support their lands.

One of the hardest parts to readjust to is constant clothing. Wearing a full shirt for the first time in months is an alien experience, sandals even more so. Still, Antilochus is always present to offer his help. The man is kind, bubbly, clearly starved for friends his own age, and his honest friendship makes him a joy to be around. He tells them of current events in Phthia; of how a long mourning period is still ongoing for the lost Crown Prince, of how no one has been allowed to smile or wear anything other than black since the tragic event.

“Not that I wasn’t in mourning, but I will be one of many to be grateful when we can all feel happiness again. Phoinix would be overjoyed to have seen you again- he took it very hard.”

Patroclus frowns. “Is he- did he-”

Antilochus nods, sadness in his bright brown eyes. “He was already old and ailing from the accident, and I think the loss was too much. He was especially fond of you, Patroclus. When the Crown Prince’s room was preserved, he fought to have yours remain as well during the mourning period. Well- like I said, enough sadness, right? I think that the world around you ought to match the joy you both feel for one another.”

He’s a really good kid, a bit of a romantic but honest and true, and Achilles and Patroclus take note- they could use a brand-new member of their new court upon their return.

They wear masks so as to not reveal their identities when they re-enter the kingdom, swiftly making their way from the docks to the palace. A horse has been sent ahead with a message for the Queen, so her small retinue awaits in the main hall when they enter. It’s harder than they thought- even when the hall is near empty, it’s still echoes of noise and overwhelming imagery. Still, Achilles wanted to see his mother at once, and there’s no better source of spreading information than the Phthian Royal Court, so it was decided that they’ll solve two birds with one stone.

Queen Thetis is dressed from head to toe in black, still resplendent in velvets and a lace veil. Her height and elegance stand her apart from her ladies, also donning funeral wear. Her pale face, normally glowing like freshly sculpted marble, is wan, dark circles barely hid by concealing paste. It’s hard to witness such a powerful presence, brought so low by loss.

“My King,” she asks, voice low. “What makes you summon me so quickly? You know I was in seclusion to pray.”

Peleus holds a hand behind him, reaching for his son.

“My love, I have someone for you.”

When Achilles steps forward, slowly removing his disguise, the Queen falls to the ground in a near dead faint. Shocked frozen, her ladies forget to rush to her aid, which is just as well as Achilles rushes to the floor by her side instead.

“Mother,” he whispers, gaze watery as he lifts her from the cold marble. “Mommy, it’s me. I’m home.”

Thetis reaches for his face as though it were divine, gently touching it over and over. With a sob, she pulls him into an embrace. The large hall echoes with her heaving sobs of relief, of joy- a stark contrast to her tears of agony so many months ago, the wailing of a mother who’d lost her only child and the light of her life. Achilles soothes her through her tears as she lets herself feel- dignity be damned. The servants scatter like starving rats- the palace halls will be filled with rumors of miracles within the next fifteen minutes.

Witnessing such affection, once again Patroclus feels like an intruder, but he can’t run- fear fills him as he realizes, where would he go? To his old rooms? Phoinix- bless his soul- had gone to the effort, but would they be locked? What then? Perhaps he can hide in the library? Thoughts of escape are rushing through his mind when Thetis turns her deep eyes toward him. It’s hard, looking her in the face- unlike Peleus, Thetis has never held kind feelings for Patroclus, her presence ambivalent at best. He cannot even recall the last time he looked upon her visage, let alone in her eye, nor can he remove the fearful memory of her trying to have him whipped.

And then she holds out her arm. Her eyes fill with life, with gratitude. Achilles holds out his arm as well, beckoning him forward, and Patroclus finds himself yanked into the tightest hug he’s ever received.

“Thank you so much for bringing my son back to me, for giving him reason to live,” she whispers intensely. “Thank you, Patroclus.”

The depth of emotion in her voice leaves no room for question, and Patroclus finds that his doubts bubble away into the night. Thankful, he relaxes into her embrace.

There’s nothing like a warm bath after months of cleaning oneself in cold streams. The hot, perfumed water stings pleasurably as Patroclus allows the servants to scrub him within an inch of his life, removing dirt and thick calluses that he’d long accepted as part of him. His curly hair is scrubbed to shine, his facial hair trimmed and combed into a neat mustache and beard. His teeth are back to a bright white, skin moisturized all over, and nails trimmed and orderly. Once he’s been deemed appropriate by the bathers and royal stylists, he’s free to head to the mess hall.

On his way, he runs into his lover at the top of the stairs, and he can’t help but break into giggles. They’ve been so used to living with the bare minimum, so seeing themselves back in full regalia is both suffocating and yet hilarious. Achilles can see his thoughts on his face, and he starts to laugh as well.

“Well, these clothes are hard to wear, but I must admit- I missed seeing you in such finery. You look lovely.”

Patroclus preens, then looks Achilles up and down. “You’re not so bad yourself- green is a perfect color on you. I see you, too, convinced them out of the corset and vest.”

Both of them are wearing a fluffy dress shirt on top of their dress pants and shoes, one a rich emerald green and one deep sapphire blue but are practically bare in comparison to the rest of the gaudy finery they expect the rest of the court to wear. These days, they both strike a svelte figure. Achilles grins, shrugging.

“Intelligent move. We look quite handsomely rakish if I must say.”

With a kiss to his hand, Achilles leads Patroclus down the stairs, the still starstruck servants and retinue following behind them. People of all stature gasp and bow as they pass, unable to believe their eyes as the rumors of a returned prince become true. It’s more difficult than Patroclus remembers. Once, these eyes were easy enough to ignore; perhaps he’d just retreated into himself so deeply that he’d numbed to it. Still, with Achilles proudly holding his hand, he refuses to kneel to pressure, tilting his head high.

“Good job,” whispers Achilles, thumbing his hand in encouragement. Soon, they stand in front of the doors to the dining hall, preparing to be announced. Patroclus’ heart pounds in his chest, and he squeezes Achilles’ hand tighter. “I’ve got you.”

The looming doors open, and they walk inside to triumphant music and thunderous applause. All the members of the court sob with joy (at least, that’s what they’d like everyone to believe) upon laying eyes on their prince. Once they finish, they immediately gossip about how he’s daring to hold hands with his retainer, also come back from the dead. It’s exciting, it’s dreadful, it’s overstimulating, and Patroclus envies how easily Achilles hides his unnerve because he is personally ready to leave. There’s a thankful lull when both Achilles and Patroclus are warmly and officially welcomed by the King and Queen before taking their seats on the royal dais. It’s yet another step into the fearful familiar- the last time he’d had a seat so close to Achilles’ side, everything fell apart. Steeling his nerves, he sits.

Those nerves practically melt at the savory scent wafting in from the approaching trays, and Patroclus can’t help the quiet moan that slips out. Brow raised, Achilles blinks coquettishly at him. It’s unfortunate that they’re still being weaned back onto rich foods, so Patroclus can’t partake as much as he’d like, but he still gets to have one small plate of every course. Soon warm, brown breads with butter and cheese, savory steak with garlic, and light lamb soup fill his belly and his heart. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until he was back in a space with decadence- truly, the Phthian Royal Court had never had to go without. He requests a servant to make sure the leftovers are spread between the workers, so that there is no waste that night. Surprisingly, his will is followed.

As for Achilles, he’s plied with all the sweet summer wines he missed, singing along with happy crowds and the celebratory music. His cheeks are tinged pink, his presence ruffled just enough to make him even more devastatingly handsome. The court cannot take their eyes off of him- he’s even more beautiful than when he left, they whisper. Look at the way he’s glowing. Throughout the celebration, he’s leaned against Patroclus’ side, the picture of contentment. Teasing, Patroclus pulls his latest goblet of wine away from him, not realizing what he’s really done until the area around him hushes. Achilles grins wickedly.

“Drink it,” he whispers, daring him.

What has he done? He’s not against drinking wine, but from the Crown Prince’s cup? In front of everyone? He’s become too comfortable! But then he looks at Achilles, whose gaze is still firmly on his, and he realizes that the prince is not nearly as tipsy as he was portraying. It’s become a symbolic gesture- Achilles wants to show him off.

Perhaps, this time, Patroclus wants to be shown off. Daring, he takes the cup and tips it back, the light tang of fruit and alcohol as intoxicating as this newfound boldness. When he finishes the cup, he holds it out to Achilles, who is proudly smiling at him.

“Oh no,” he simpers dramatically. “You’ve spilled some on your shirt. No worries, we can get another one from our closet.”

There’s no liquid on Patroclus’ shirt. “Our?”

“Did I forget? That’s my fault.” Achilles turns, arrogantly lightly waving over one of the higher ranked squires. “Patroclus’ things are to be properly moved into the Crown Prince’s royal bedchamber. I expect this is completed before I leave this banquet.”

By now, the entire room is silent, waiting for the inevitable, and the blood rushes from Patroclus’ face. Everyone looks to the King and Queen. Peleus scowls, and Thetis folds her arms.

“My son gave you an order,” she hisses. “Why are you still here?”

The servant is summarily dismissed, and with that, so is the opinion of the Phthian Royal Court. Achilles nudges Patroclus’ hand in triumph under the table, already sipping from his instantly refilled cup.

“You ass,” Patroclus whispers in exhilaration, still whiplashed from how different that had turned out. 

By the end, musicians are playing slow, dreamy music as everyone makes their way out, and it’s a tipsy Patroclus who has to walk an even tipsier Achilles back. Much of his tolerance had been lost, so what used to feel like nothing but a swig has left the adorably giggly Crown Prince off-kilter. They slowly make their way through the halls, too caught up in each other to pay attention to the others following them.

The loud slam of the heavy doors behind them snaps Patroclus out of his drunken haze. He’s not unfamiliar with Achilles’ chambers, having served him near all his life, but he does find it odd to see evidence of himself inside it. A wardrobe for his clothes, a desk and bookshelf obtained for his papers and books, and most notably- there’s still only one bed, sheets freshly washed and tucked. The nightstand sits to the side, a tray with a large decanter of wine and water and two cups placed for their leisure. He lays Achilles onto the sheets, removing his shoes and socks. A single candle lights the room, throwing shadows across the space that seems eerily empty, and it’s not the first time Patroclus yearns for the cozy safety of their cave.

“You’re safe.” Achilles’ soft voice causes him to turn, his expression serious. “I mean it. You’re safe. I want you here with me.”

Patroclus laughs, coming to sit on the bed beside him.

“How’d you know what I was thinking?”

“I know what you look like when you’re ready to flee, even more than you do, remember? Every time you feel that way, I’m going to remind you.”

He sits up, running a hand down Patroclus’ cheek, and Patroclus leans into the touch.

“Such eloquence. Weren’t you just drunk a moment ago?”

Achilles scoffs. “Just shush and let me adore you. Besides,” he purrs, running a finger down the silk shirt. “I can’t fall asleep now- I planned to have you ravish me in that shirt, and I want to be awake for it.”

Heat squirms in Patroclus’ groin, and he swallows as Achilles unbuttons his own shirt.

“It’ll get ruined, for real this time.”

Pale, naked skin flickers in the warm light. “I’ll get you another one.”

“You’re still spoiled.” Patroclus’ hands rise to cradle the prince now writhing nakedly in his lap, hissing at the friction.

“Absolutely rotten.” Grinning, Achilles takes Patroclus’ fingers, running them down his back and in between his cleft until it comes into contact with something cold, smooth, and ceramic. When Patroclus starts, Achilles’ laughter fills the room.

“Where did you even get something like this?” he marvels, taking hold of the narrow part, slowly tugging to make his lover moan. Pleased, Achilles rolls his hips, the toy sliding in and out from the slick of his already oiled hole.

“I told Antilochus that the only way I’d hire him- mmph- is if he could retrieve this for me, secretly. It was a test to see how quickly I’d hear about it, how quickly he’d betray my interests. I don’t know how he- hahh- managed to do it in such a short time, but he must really want that job- you’ve got some competition in efficiency.” Achilles grinds down even harder.

“And you had it in you the entire time?” Achilles’ red cheeks from the dinner suddenly take on new meaning. “When did-”

“I dismissed the servants bathing me. I wanted it to be a surprise for you- ah, shit, I’m-”

Patroclus hides his laughter in the curve of Achilles’ neck as he stiffens in his arms, streaks of white marring the blue silk. “And here you used to be afraid to relieve yourself.”

“I want you to do something else to help me overcome my fear, Philtatos. If you don’t mind.”

There are logical answers running through Patroclus’ mind, but all of them are crushed when Achilles grips him in hand, having finally released him from his own tightening pants.

“Anything,” he whispers, full of lust and adoration. Gently fisting in Patroclus’ curls, Achilles bares his neck, biting slowly and adding more pressure. He does once, twice, multiple times until Patroclus is sure he’s going to be the one wearing a turtleneck. Finally, when Achilles makes his way to his ear, he licks the shell and kisses it.

“I want you to fuck me so loud that I hear about it as morning news.”

“Achilles!”

Still grinning, Achilles takes Patroclus’ hands, running them up his chest to squeeze and pinch his nipples as he leans his head back in ecstasy.

“Please? You don’t have to make any noise if you don’t want, but I want this entire place to know how good you treat me.”

“Your parents-”

“Know what we’re about already. You think they would have let that slide earlier if they didn’t know? Besides, the court always wants to know what their Crown Prince is doing- let them find out. Let all of Phthia find out just how much their prince loves his soulmate.”

Patroclus is trying so hard right now to be sensible- he knows that just because Peleus and Thetis have graciously accepted them and their love, does not mean that he should boldly fuck their son in the audio of the court. The prince has been given an inch and is trying to take a mile. But he’s already being done apart by his lover’s firm fingers, plush skin pressed tight against him. When Achilles presents a red nipple, his tongue falls on it, suckling like he’s dehydrated.

It’s when Achilles bottoms out that Patroclus feels his entire night hinging on this one moment. He knows that if he doesn’t want to, Achilles will not blame him. He will not demand; he will happily take what he can get. But something is building, something in him from earlier that night that wants to see just how far he can push this new freedom. Line of spit separating them, Patroclus pulls back to look at Achilles one last time.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs. “I refuse to answer a single question about this.”

Achilles brings a thumb to Patroclus’ plump lip, wiping the trail away and licking it.

“You won’t have to- let me take care of it all.”

With that, Patroclus braces himself, wrapping his arms around Achilles’ legs before standing straight up. There’s the familiar sting of nails on his back as Achilles falls deeper onto him. Patroclus makes his way to the side table, lifting the decanter with one hand to drink the more potent red wine, spilling some down his chest. Once he’s drunk his fill, he takes one more swig and presses his lips to Achilles, letting the burning liquid rush in between them before taking his tongue.

He’s only just aware enough of the space to slam Achilles back onto the wall nearest the doors, bracing an elbow for support.

“Shit, wait, did that hurt?”

Pure lust glows in Achilles’ hungry eyes, and he quickly shakes his head. “No, no no no this is great, my gods this is sexy, keep go- ah!”

His back slides up the wall as Patroclus thrusts, first softly, then harder and harder as he picks up a punishing pace. He’s not sure how long this strength will last him, but the sound of Achilles’ moans and the way his body squeezes around him drives him to maddening pleasure, and the sound of each impact against the hard wall echoes in the space and outside.

“Fuck! Yes!”

“Take me, take me my Prince, yes-”

“Just like that, you’re fucking me so perfectly, I love you-”

“Patroclus, yes, fuck me I’m so close already-”

It’s clear that Achilles meant what he said- some of his shameless moans are borderline ridiculous as he pointedly turns his voice to the doors, knowing he’s scandalizing the poor guards standing outside of it and every passing person that isn’t already in their room.

“It’s so thick, I feel you in my throat~”

“Patroclus you fuck so good no way I’m your only~”

“Don’t ever stop, stay inside me~”

Strangely, instead of feeling embarrassed, Patroclus can’t help laughing. He does pause in his motions though, head swimming from movement and wine. Cheesing, Achilles tilts his head up.

“Too much?”

He shakes his head. “I need to switch positions, or you won’t get the happy ending you want.”

Before Achilles can get down, he finds himself hurtled over on top of the desk, papers roughly pushed onto the floor. The cold wood isn’t the only thing sending shivers down his back.

“Is this really happening?” he begs, voice awed.

“Sorry that it’s not the real one,” Patroclus teases, still winded.

“Oh, we have plenty of time for that!” Giddy, Achilles grabs for Patroclus’ dick, slickly running oil and pre-cum over it. “Come on, come on, I’m ready, I’m so ready-”

When Patroclus pushes inside, Achilles gives a triumphant moan, smile so wide it’s near hurting his lips. Sensitive beyond reason, he no longer has the focus to moan pointedly, but that’s because he’s naturally keening so loudly that it hurts Patroclus’ ears. He takes one hand and places it firmly over Achilles’ mouth, leaning down low and only removing it when their lips are close.

“I’m close,” he explains. “Call for me.” Confused, but titillated by the firm, commanding tone, Achilles does what he asks, his heart almost stopping when Patroclus returns it in kind. Achilles. Patroclus, Achilles, Philtatos, Achilles, Philtatos, Achilles, over and over, louder and louder until they’re chorusing each other’s name. By the time they come, they’re sure this is the most anyone has heard their prince’s real name out loud, let alone so exquisitely and followed by an orgasm.

Patroclus’ shirt, torn into and soiled beyond repair, is lit on fire and tossed into the fireplace after some convincing that no one needed physical evidence of their passion.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Patroclus blinks, the steam from the bath serving as a barrier to reality. A small splash of water forces him out of his self-invented safety.

“Why do you act as though you and the incubus inside you aren’t one and the same?” teases Achilles. “You lifted me off the bed, held me with one arm multiple times, fucked me against-”

“I was there!”

Purring with satisfaction, Achilles cuddles deeper into Patroclus’ embrace. All the space in this grand tub, and he refuses to leave Patroclus’ side for a moment.

“We should have been doing this for so long,” he murmurs. “I’ve got so much time to make up for.”

They recline in silence, the spend and sweat already washed from their skin. Achilles is worried that Patroclus has fallen asleep when he finally speaks.

“What happens tomorrow?”

“What?”

“Well, we’ve essentially confirmed ourselves in every way… what happens tomorrow? Am I still your retainer? I was pretty good at it, I enjoyed the work, but am I still allowed to do that? What is…” My role, he leaves unsaid.

Sheepish, Achilles blushes. “Um, actually… I thought you’d want to be my consort.”

Patroclus’ head whips. “Consort?”

Defensive hands raise up out of the water, fidgeting as Achilles moves away. “I mean, you’d have the same job, really! It’s the role of the royal… spouse… to manage the household… and you do it better than anyone else anyway…”

It’s clear Achilles is caught off guard by how quickly the topic came up, too lost in his own fantasies of the end result. Patroclus has to bite his lip to stop smiling.

“Do you think it could actually happen?”

Scoffing, Achilles turns his red nose up. “Of course, it could. I’d make it happen. And if not, they can have that stupid throne. We’ll run away together, start our own kingdom- Achilles and Patroclus.”

“Ah yes, two deposed princes, how romantic.”

Patroclus ruminates over the idea. A royal spouse…a consort… Two men on the throne was unheard of- there was always a Queen, even if she only served as a figurehead. Not to mention-

“It would certainly make Opus nervous, putting the child of a murdered King back onto a throne.”

Achilles hisses, not having thought about that. “That’s true. Do you want your kingdom back?”

Stunned, Patroclus gawks at Achilles. Moments pass, and Achilles’ expression remains unchanged.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“What, like a bride price or something?”

“Sure.”

“Achilles, no.”

Shrugging, Achilles splashes closer to Patroclus and cradles his face. “Fine. Look, we’ll handle things as they arrive, okay? Whatever role you want, you’ll have it and I’ll support you in it. Just stay by my side, okay?”

Snorting in amusement, Patroclus presses their hands together.

“Please don’t propose to me in a bathtub after we just had filthy sex.”

“You’re right, I’ll make sure to do it beforehand next time. Though, me personally, I always look forward to making love to my future husband.”

“You’re saying it like it’s a foregone conclusion!”

Laughing so hard his sides ache, Patroclus allows Achilles to ply him with kisses. It’s the most secure and content he’s ever felt, and as he melts into the warm affection, he decides that he’s going to let himself feel safe. He wants this, and he deserves to have it. He’s going to trust Achilles, trust that their lives will be better, trust that they can weather any storm- real or not- that comes their way.