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Their first kiss was as young boys. A mixture of a mistake and of true feelings. A lingering need for more.
It was by the sea. A summer day, with the wind gently carding through their hair. He tasted of seasalt and figs.
Fingertips graze the surface of water rushing past. The lightest of touches leave droplets on his hands.
The first time they come to terms with their feelings it is in the mountains. Hidden away from Thetis’ watchful eyes. Once they both realize Achilles’ mother can’t quite reach them here, everything shifts. The feelings they both repressed were finally allowed to come to the surface. With this realization comes the softest press of lips against lips, with the promise of more. So much more.
Hands familiar with the water. Fingers disappearing beneath the surface. Water dancing around palms and through fingers. Welcoming and inviting.
The first time he is really, truly jealous is when a man in the camp laughs, leering at him, and touches his shoulder. Patroclus has always been know for his reserved and calm nature, but in this instance he was anything but. He walks over, completely interrupting the strategy meeting, and grabs Achilles’ hand. Despite his surprise there was no protesting, and he simply followed Patroclus until he is pushed into their tent on the outskirts of camp. “Pat, what-“ and he finds himself with an arm full of warm body and lips pressed hard against his with a hint of teeth. Achilles had never had Patroclus take charge like this and it was alarming... but not unwelcome.
Patroclus pulls away and looks him hard in the eyes, staring straight into his soul. “No one shall have you. You are my heart, and I am yours.” And he was right.
No one else could ever have him like this. In life or death.
Hands do no graze the water. Instead it is cupped by the most gentle of hands. Hands that were once used for healing, and on occasion, fighting. Hands that once traced the body of his lover, memorizing every scar, line, and freckle. He sees his reflection in the small pool of water in his hands.
So much time has passed. And he is so tired. He just wants some rest from the pain his memories bring him.
Casting aside the remainder of his hesitations, he drinks.
Stranger, is what he calls him. He believes he once told him his name but he can’t quite grasp the memory from his mind. So he settles for “stranger.” He says it politely enough, so it shall never be seen in offense. Or seen for the coverup it is.
The stranger sometimes speaks of his teacher, and for some reason this is one of the only times he does not tune out the strangers ramblings. His teacher sounds to be a great warrior, and a most knowledgeable guide.
“Ah ha ha! He shall love to hear such kind words! But forgive me, after all our meetings, I have yet to ask your name. Would you quite mind if I know it, if only to tell Achilles who praises him so?”
“Oh, of course stranger. Forgive me for not thinking sooner. It is Patro.”
“Patro? What a lovely name! I shall relay the kind words of Patro to Achilles.”
“You do that stranger. Now, take this and be off.”
Zagreus takes his gift and runs off to the next chamber, only catching the tail end of Patro’s mumblings. “Patro?.... it seems almost... not quite... Achilles?... where have I... no I don’t think... is it what I remem-... no, no....”
A passing shade recently gifted him a drinking glass. It was most beautiful, an emerald color with golden flecks that shone constantly due to the ever present light Elysium provided.
This cup he drank from every day (or what seemed to be every day). Time here ran differently. He half filled it and only drank once a day, or what seemed to be a days time. When he isn’t drinking, he lays in his meadow by the river, just as he does now. On his back he holds the cup up above him to the sky. His only attachment in this place, and it is to a cup which helps him to forget any other attachments he may have had /before/. This cup reminds him of something, of someone. It is the gold that calls to him and seems to outshine everything else around it.
He sits up and rolls to the side, just enough to reach the river. He dips his cup in and allows the rushing movement to fill it up halfway. Never more, never less. Just enough to give him the warm feeling he craves to get through this existence. It’s comparable to the way ambrosia would make one feel, only ambrosia doesn’t take and take and take and take and-
“Patroclus?”
Well, that didn’t quite sound like the person who comes around here sometimes... what was his name again...
“...Pat? Thank gods. When the lad told me of a ‘Patro’ and what he looked like, I could only hope I was right in my assumptions.”
Achilles runs to where Patroclus was now sitting up halfway, cup forgotten in his hand. He stops and drops to his knees, bowing at his feet with eyes cast downwards.
“My heart, my soul, my beloved. So much time has passed and I have missed you as if my heart and soul were gone from me. I apologize that it took me so long to get here. I was foolish in thinking perhaps I would not be welcome or wanted but, you know me, I’m selfish. I decided to risk it all, to be selfish and come to you. I wish to have you again, as I hope you’ll have me...”
Achilles looks up into the eyes of his one true love, only to see eyes glazed over... and something missing...
“Pat...?” He whispers, finally taking in his appearance completely. He was so overcome with happiness in seeing him that he overlooked the cup in his hand that was half full, his tired posture, and how his body was seemingly pulled to the River of Lethe next to him...
It all clicks.
“Patroclus, oh Patroclus, what have-“
“I am deeply sorry, but.... do I know you, stranger?”