Archive of Our Own

The first time they have sex is nothing like Achilles expects. For the most part he tries to savour the moment, to show Patroclus how much he cares, how long he’s wanted this, but before he knows it they’re both tearing at each other’s clothes somewhere between the bed and the hallway, and Patroclus is urging him to go faster, faster, harder— until they’re both panting, boneless and spent, on the living room floor.

And it's great. Not how he’d imagined it, but great all the same.

In fact, there’s a million different ways he’d imagined this, if he’s being honest with himself. It’s been a dream of his ever since he can remember himself actually— not this, precisely, but being with Patroclus. Kissing him. Holding him. In all the years they've known each other, he’s gone through all the possible scenarios in his head: the dreamy ones, where he takes him to the beach they used to go to as kids and kisses him gently, bathed in the sunset's amber glow. The more emotional ones, where Patroclus comes to him in the middle of the night after one of his nightmares and Achilles is there to comfort him, as always, before their innocent, friendly cuddling turns into something more. And there are the darker, more feral ones, where Achilles grabs him and pulls him close, and they kiss with abandon before falling on the nearest available surface. 

What actually happened is somewhere in between all of those daydreams, and none of them at all. 

Achilles has just arrived in Athens from Troy. It hasn’t been more than two weeks after the war has finally ended, but Achilles was given early honorable discharge while the others stayed back at the base for a few more weeks. So, the first thing he does is grab the first plane he could find and fly wherever Patroclus is. Patroclus was relieved of duty about six months back because of an injury —he’s better now, it’s fine— but to Achilles it feels like an eternity since he last saw him. He knows he should probably have gone to Phthia first to see his old man after so many years on the battlefield, but he just couldn’t help himself. 

He feels a little guilty about it, but he forgets everything the moment the plane lands, and he sees Patroclus’ bright, smiling face waiting for him at the airport arrivals. 

Fuck, he’s so beautiful.

Achilles' heart is beating a frantic rhythm as he closes the distance between them in just a few strides. Patroclus’ arms come around him, as if by rote, and it feels so right to be there with him, to have him in his arms and to have his familiar scent in his nose. Achilles has missed him so much that, for a few moments, he really has no words. 

He pulls back to look at him, and in the airport’s artificial lights, Patroclus’ eyes are bright like lit up stars. He looks better than he did the last time Achilles saw him: he’s healthy and joyous and his complexion looks better, more vibrant; he’s gained a little bit of weight too which is good, after losing so much of it during those last couple months in Troy. Achilles’ gaze drops to his shoulder, his arm that had been wounded, and it’s such a relief to not be able to discern any visible sign of his injury, at least not through his clothes. He drinks in the sight of him, catalogues every small detail in his mind crystal clear. 

“How was your flight? Good?” Patroclus asks. He takes a small step back as they peel away from each other. They stand for a little while there, just looking at each other. The distance between them makes Achilles uneasy, but he brushes the feeling away. 

“Good. Yeah. The coffee was atrocious. Couldn’t wait for it to be over.” He slinks the duffel bag that holds all of his belongings over his shoulder, then places his arm on Patroclus’ shoulders in a friendly hug as they walk towards the exits. The people they pass by turn to glance at him, their eyes swiftly taking in Achilles’ aviation officer uniform. He’s sticking out like a sore thumb, but he honestly couldn’t care less. Soon, the planes and ships will be full of soldiers returning to their home bases; they’ll all get used to the sight. “What have you been up to? Tell me all about it.”

They’ve been in touch since Patroclus left, of course. They’ve been texting and talking on the phone, and Patroclus even sent him an old fashioned letter once, but it’s different now that they’re face to face. It’s like Achilles has been starved all the while they’ve been apart, and he can’t get enough of the sound of his voice now, his expressions, his laughter, the way he slips his hands in his pockets and gets a little light on his feet when he walks. 

He still feels a bit heavy, the war no doubt still fresh in his mind, but he’s smiling and laughing like always. And it’s good. It’s more than good actually— it’s great. 

Things have been going great ever since he came back, Patroclus says. He got into vet school with the help of one of his ex-senior officer’s recommendation letters —he’s always wanted to be a vet. He's found a flat, and he’s getting a small veteran pension too, enough for him to go by. He’s met new friends, and they’re all great. Everything’s great, really.

“It feels like I finally have a life,” Patroclus tells him, and holds the car door open for him to get in. “You know?” 

Achilles is happy for him. He really is. Patroclus deserves everything good, he deserves to have the life he’s always wanted. He gets in the passenger seat and puts on some music, and, for a while, it’s just like old times. 

The air in Athens is heavy and humid, the sun blasting scorching bright above them. Patroclus takes him to one of the restaurants near the university that he likes to go to —the dumplings here are great, you’ll love them— and then gives him a tour of the part of the campus that’s open for visitors. 

It’s not how Achilles imagined it would be. It’s quite an old building actually, and there are pigeons nesting in the high rafters of the open hall. It’s Sunday, though, so the park out front is quiet. Only a few throngs of students lazying about on the warm grass, basking in the sunlight, blasting music from tiny portable speakers. 

Achilles watches everything like an alien. In truth, he is. It’s been years since he last set foot outside of Troy, and before that he was almost a kid. It’s strange to realise that life has actually been going on in something that’s very close to normal all the while they’ve all been risking their lives at the other side of the Aegean. 

It is odd, not fighting anymore, not being at war. Patroclus himself seems to have forgotten about it all, to have gotten used to his life here, but Achilles knows him better than this. He’s pensive, and there are moments when he goes quiet, and Achilles can tell there is something that’s bothering him still. 

But Achilles doesn’t ask him. He doesn’t want to press him to talk. It’s what Patroclus does: he always takes his time thinking about stuff, it’s how he processes everything. And the memories from the war are still fresh. Patroclus may not have been in the thick of it for the most part, but certain things never leave you.

Achilles sinks back on the grass, and sneaks occasional glances at Patroclus, at the fiery blaze of the late spring sunset and the way it warms up Patroclus’ olive skin, the dark curls that wisp about his face when the breeze blows through them. His hair has gotten long now, caressing the back of his neck, like it used to when they were kids, before they had to crop it short for the army. Achilles falls silent when Patroclus does, and pretends not to notice the tension simmering between them, like there’s something they’re not saying.

They’ve been apart for too long. That’s probably it. 

After the sun sets, Patroclus takes him to a bar downtown. It’s apparently a cool place that college kids frequent, hidden in a small cobble-stone lane in the old city. Once again, Achilles feels like an alien there, but it’s probably all in his head. He’s not wearing his uniform anymore; the tee shirt Patroclus lent him is a little too tight across the shoulders for him, but not by much. It’s certainly strange to be wearing civilian clothes again, but Achilles tries not to think too much about it. 

He has a drink, then another, and another, and Patroclus does, too. The music is pleasant, not too loud, just loud enough for them to keep a conversation going without the silences between them getting too awkward. 

Things have not exactly been the same between them since Patroclus left Troy. Achilles doesn’t exactly know what it is, but he can tell it’s on Patroclus’ mind too; it has to be. They’ve known each other too long, and they’ve gone through too much to not be able to read each other. There’s something between them now, hanging in the air like a barrier, and Achilles keeps wanting to open up, to take the conversation there, but he never does.

Instead, he keeps getting distracted by the expression on Patroclus' face. His eyes look so vivid, so bright in the dim yellow light of the bar. His cheeks are flushed, and his lips are glistening from his drink, and the way they wrap around the head of his beer bottle has Achilles’ mind going to places it shouldn’t. 

So he orders another drink. He tries to act casual, and cracks a couple jokes, and then tells Patroclus about Menelaus and Agamemnon and Antilochus, all the guys from their division —those that made it back alive, but he leaves out that part— and the shadows in Patroclus’ eyes grow less and less dark. 

“It’s time they all came back,” he says. “I'm just glad it's all finally over.”

Achilles nods in agreement, and takes another sip. It hasn’t been easy for anyone, that much he knows. 

It’s almost midnight when they make it back to Patroclus’ flat. It’s just a short walk from the bar, and they’re both a bit buzzy from the drink. They’re not drunk by any means, but loose and relaxed and a little giggly. Patroclus leans against him as they walk, and his arm threads around Achilles’ as if by accident, his steps falling alongside his, and Achilles’ heart thrums with all the longing he’s suppressed for months, for years now, and that he’s suppressing still. 

It’s fine, he tells himself as Patroclus fiddles with the key to the main building door. It’s going to be fine, though his eyes instinctively fall to Patroclus’ back, and he keeps picturing that soft dip between his shoulder blades underneath his tee shirt, the muscles that fall and rise under his skin when he moves. He tries to remember how long it has been since he’s caught a glimpse of his bare back as he was changing out of his shirt in the barracks before bed, skin still a little damp from his shower, and oh god why am I like this—

He jolts a little when Patroclus takes his hand and he leads him to the elevator. He’s not used to Patroclus’ fingers threading through his own, they’ve never really touched each other like that, but it’s a welcome change. Achilles’ arm comes around his shoulders as they watch the numbers flash in the elevator’s panel.

Ground floor. First floor. Third. 

Patroclus doesn’t let him go as walks up to his flat door. He fumbles with the key for a beat, and when he finally pushes the door open, Achilles is at the same time relieved and disappointed, because walking in will probably mean letting Patroclus’ hand go, and he doesn’t really want that, but he’s not exactly sure what it means if they keep holding each other like this either. 

Achilles says something to break the tension when they walk in and the door closes behind them. Patroclus laughs again, and the sound of it makes Achilles warm inside out.

He leans in and kisses him. 

Patroclus’ laughter is still bright and warm on his lips. They are soft against Achilles’ own, and it must be the drink, surely, because neither of them pulls back. It feels like an eternity later when Achilles does pull back, and they simply stand in the dark hallway, next to Patroclus’ coats hanging by the pegs on the wall, staring at each other with wide, unblinking eyes. 

Achilles isn’t sure who moves again first. All he knows is that they pounce on each other, kissing and groping and pulling. It's too fast, making him dizzy; some hazy part of Achilles’ mind wants to take this slow, to make it last, but the way Patroclus kisses him is frantic and needy and desperate, and it only feeds the fire that has kindled in Achilles’ core. 

Achilles gasps when Patroclus pushes him against the door, grinding helplessly against him, fingers threading through his hair, tugging. 

“Patroclus,” he whispers, surrendering himself to that furious kiss, those hurried, hungry touches. His name is the only thing he seems to be able to utter while his mind is still working. “Patroclus. Patroclus—” 

Deft fingers slide down between them, pulling jerkily at the clasp of his belt. Achilles draws back for air, blinks, tries to make sense of this, of any of this, but Patroclus’ hand is already slithering past his waistband, and fuck, Achilles is so hard already, and it only gets worse —or better, infinitely better— when Patroclus sinks to his knees right there and then. 

“Patroclus,” he says, voice shaking, “what—” 

His words die in his throat when Patroclus takes him in his mouth.

Lips, soft and pliant, wrap around him. Patroclus’ eyes are on him, dark and liquid in the half-light, and Achilles is drowning in them. It all takes him by surprise, but he only needs a moment to recover. Adaptability: he’s always been good at it. He’s been a fighter pilot for nigh on ten years; if he didn’t have razor sharp reflexes, he would be dead.

He reaches down, threads his fingers through Patroclus’ curls, pushes his bangs away from his brow. He does it tenderly while Patroclus takes him in as far as he can go, stroking with his curled fist what doesn’t fit. Achilles’ head falls back against the door when he feels the pressure of cartilage from Patroclus' throat around the tip of his cock. 

“Fuck, Patroclus…”

His mind is fuzzy and soft from pleasure when Patroclus gets back up, climbing up the length of him. His lips crash against Achilles’ in a desperate kiss, and Achilles can taste himself on his tongue. The little moaning and whimpering sounds Patroclus makes at the back of his throat go straight to Achilles’ cock, and he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll last. 

“I want you,” Patroclus pants, “I want you.”

“I do too,” Achilles sighs into his mouth, “I want you too, Patroclus—"

“Fuck me. Fuck me now.”

Achilles blinks as Patroclus pulls him off the door, half-stumbles over his own toes. “Wait, what? You—” He gapes while Patroclus tears off his own clothes in a haste and drops them on the floor, until he’s standing completely bare before him. Achilles only has a split second to recover from the sight of his bare chest, the curve of his shoulders, the line of soft dark hair that leads to his navel and his —very erect— cock, before Patroclus’ warm fingers are on him again, pulling at the hem of his shirt and pushing it up and over his head. 

He almost laughs at how panicked, how rushed it all is. He takes Patroclus by the hand and pulls him flush against him. Patroclus lets out a breathy moan when Achilles kisses him, and it’s all Achilles can do not to crumble. 

“Slow down,” he whispers, “I’m right here.”

“I want you. I want you so much.” Patroclus closes his teeth over Achilles’ lower lip and tugs at it, his hand reaching down between them. “Fuck me. Please. I want your cock, now.”

If Achilles had any sense left, he would pull back and ask Patroclus to sit down, to talk about all this. It’s all going too fast, and they haven’t even had time to talk about… anything. 

But, oh, Patroclus’ hands on him feel so good. 

“Okay,” he breathes, leaning into the kiss. He lets himself dissolve, every other thought on his mind wasting away. He lets Patroclus draw him down on the couch, climbs between his legs, feels him shivering underneath him. 

Patroclus reaches over to the coffee table and draws out a small bottle of lube from a little box compartment. In his haze, he wonders why Patroclus keeps a bottle of lube on his living room table, of all places, but doesn’t really dwell too much on it because his best friend is already coating his fingers with it and guiding Achilles’ hand down between them. Patroclus’ head falls back on the couch cushions when Achilles’ sleek fingers smooth over his entrance, when they breach his body. 

“Yes,” he pants, kissing him, riding his hand, urging him, “like this, just like this—”

If Achilles had his way, he would take his time with it all. He would kiss Patroclus slowly, whisper praise into his hair as he gently fingered him open; he would tell him how beautiful he is, how much he missed him back in Troy, after he was gone. He would tell him how long he’s dreamt of this, that this is all he ever wanted ever since he can remember himself; and when he pushed inside him with tenderness and care, when they finally became one, he would tell him that this is exactly where he wants to be.

But Patroclus is vibrating underneath him. He can't sit still. He is like a string that has been wound too tightly, ready to snap. He wraps his legs around Achilles' waist, begging him to go faster, to fuck him harder, and the way he kisses is so filthy. 

Achilles gives up. He gives in. 

He lets go and takes him like he wants him to. He thrusts with abandon, lapping his own name from flushed, needy lips, and before he knows it they’re both toppling on the floor as Patroclus rolls him on his back and straddles him, chasing his finish. 

Achilles watches as the tendons of Patroclus’ neck tense, as his features crumble. Patroclus' hand falls to his own cock, and his eyes fall closed as he strokes himself to completion, spilling messilly all over Achilles’ stomach. Achilles isn’t far behind, drowning his strangled moans in the hollow of Patroclus throat, tasting the salt of his sweat. 

They stay like this for a while, catching their breaths. Patroclus’ heart is still beating furiously when he peels himself off of him and rolls on his back on the floor beside Achilles, staring at the ceiling. 

They don’t reach for each other. They don't cuddle, they don't kiss. They just… lie like this for a time. Achilles listens to Patroclus’ breaths as they slowly even out, to the hum of distant traffic beyond the window. 

It seems like an eternity has passed when Patroclus pushes himself up. 

“I’ll go take a shower,” he tells him. 

“Okay,” Achilles says. He watches him pull on his shirt and his boxers, and though they’ve seen each other half-naked a thousand times before under various circumstances, there’s something about it now that makes it a little awkward looking at him. He puts on his own clothes, goes to the kitchen and drinks some water, gazes out the window while he waits for Patroclus to finish his shower. 

It’s still awkward between them when Patroclus comes out. His curls are damp and clinging to his forehead and the nape of his neck, tiny rivulets of water sinking into the collar of his shirt, darkening the fabric. 

“I can make the bed for you, if you’d like,” he says. “Or you can sleep on the couch. Or…” He lets his words drift away, slipping his hands in his pockets. 

They stand like this, in tense silence for a brief moment. Patroclus’ dark eyes dart from his face to the ground and back a couple times, and he seems so lost that it makes Achilles’ heart ache with painful longing. He wants to go over to him, to pull him close again, but it somehow doesn't seem appropriate right now. 

“Couch is fine,” Achilles says. He sets his glass on the counter and slips his hands in his pockets, mirroring Patroclus’ stance. “I’ll be fine.”

It doesn’t really change much between them. 

Achilles thought it would, but it doesn’t. They’re still the same they always were, teasing and talking and texting, but this underlying tension seems to be near constant now. They’ll be walking down the street, or having lunch at the ramen place near the campus after one of Patroclus’ classes, and Achilles will notice that tendon on Patroclus’ throat, the one that tenses just so when he’s about to come, and he’ll get hard in seconds. 

Patroclus will notice his hungry stare and go silent, and next think they both know they’re kissing in the elevator on the way to Patroclus’ flat, and half of their clothes are ripped off them before they even manage to get to the bed. Sometimes they don’t even do that: they just pounce on each other in the hallway, or flop on the living room couch, panting and shivering with need, half-dressed. 

It’s not that it isn’t good. Far from it. It’s fucking spectacular, if the times Achilles jerks off to the memories afterwards are anything to go by. Just the chance to be close to Patroclus, to touch him, to kiss him is enough; he’s dreamed of it for so long, and now that it’s happening he can’t quite believe it. But every time is like they’re wrestling, grabbing at each other, kissing and biting and clawing in their haste. Patroclus fucks like he’s on borrowed time, and Achilles matches his pace like he’s been doing it for years. 

In his mind, he has. In his mind, he’s taken him seven ways to Sunday, but it was different then. It was a fantasy, something to pass the time and keep him going when the going got rough. This is no fantasy; it’s real, more real than he ever dared imagine. 

It scares him. Something tells him it scares Patroclus, too. 

They don’t talk about it, not really. They lie on the bed, or the couch, or the floor after they’re done, just long enough to catch their breaths, and eventually one of them sits up and pulls on their clothes.

This time, they’re sprawled on the kitchen floor, sweat still drying on their skin, and it’s Patroclus that gets up.

“Shall I order a pizza?” he asks.

Achilles nods, and closes his eyes. His body is loose and relaxed, still riding the mellow waves of the afterglow, but a part of him feels hollow.

It’s June, which is two months since Achilles and Patroclus started sleeping together, which means it’s a month since he’s moved permanently to Athens. 

His father wasn’t overly fond of his decision. Achilles knows that he secretly wanted him to stay in Phthia, get a job in the army base there, an office job or something of the sort (it wouldn’t be hard, not with his father’s connections and all the medals of honour Achilles got during the war), but Achilles is done with the army, at least for now. He applies for temporary leave, and it’s granted.

There’s more to life, he thinks, than what he’s been used to so far. While he was away at war, the world kept on moving, and it moved without him. There isn’t much he knows how to do other than fly aircrafts. There have been times when it felt like it is what he was born to do, but he knows better now. At least he hopes he does; there must be more to life than this. Patroclus has found it. He’s following his dream, he’s building a normal life, block by block. What’s stopping Achilles from doing the same?

So he gets a flat. It’s a small one bedroom apartment close to the center, by the old city with its stone worked pavements and serpentine lanes around the Ancient Agora. In the month he’s been in Athens, he’s taken up guitar lessons, drawing lessons, he’s even started taking acting lessons at a nearby theatre workshop. He’s always wanted to learn how to act, so why not do it now?

Purpose. He needs purpose, to set up some new goals, a new routine. Routine helps. Something stable, predictable. That’s what his therapist’s been telling him at least, and Achilles finds it helps him to regain some focus, some perspective. His senior officer recommended that all the former members of his division take up counselling, at least for a short while, to help with their reintegration. It’s not the short, scheduled assessments they had with the army base psychiatrist every once in a while. This is different.

Achilles was sceptical of it at first. He wasn’t sure how talking to a stranger would help with anything. He’s always had Patroclus for that, they always talked about whatever troubled them together, tried to figure it out, but things have been… not quite the same between them ever since he came back. 

It’s not just the sex. This new aspect of their relationship is a big part of it, but it isn’t just that.

Patroclus doesn't really talk about Troy, and Achilles doesn't blame him. It’s hard talking about all that’s happened. It’s easier to just wipe it all off and move on. But so much of their lives was in Troy. They practically grew up there, and so many of their shared memories are there. Sometimes it feels like it’s all there is, the time before it a hazy, distant dream, one of those that dissipate upon waking. And even though Patroclus doesn’t want to talk about it, certain things from their past life will slip without him realising it. He’ll say ‘affirmative’ when he means to say ‘yes’, ‘roger’ instead of ‘I understand’, ‘unable to comply’ when Achilles asks to change the time of their meeting and Patroclus gets a little frustrated that he’s messing up his schedule again. 

They’re all remnants from their life in the war. They’re there, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it, but Achilles doesn’t point them out. He doesn’t press him; he doesn’t want to hurt him. He sees how quiet and pensive he is at times, or the way he guards his arm when they go to the gym together, or how jumpy he gets when they cross the street and an army vehicle passes by, or when they hear the hum of aircrafts going on patrols or routine exercises overhead.

Achilles pretends not to notice. It worries him somewhat, not to be able to speak to him about those things, but he's slowly getting used to it. 

Besides Troy, though, there are other things that Achilles absolutely can’t tell anyone else, not even Patroclus. Especially Patroclus.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits to his therapist on their third session. He’s sitting on the armchair across from him, but he feels jittery, restless. He stands up and starts pacing around the room. “I don’t know what he’s doing, I don't know what he wants, and that just makes it worse.”

Chiron, his therapist, knows who ‘he’ is. Achilles has told him pretty much everything about Patroclus during their first couple of sessions: their friendship, their childhood together in Phthia, his studies, the colour of his eyes and his favourite dish. He’s told him that he was the best combat systems operator in their unit by far, that he once prevented an entire mission from going off the tracks, all by himself. That if it weren’t for him, Achilles himself would probably have crashed many times over, something that he doesn’t really admit to anyone. Patroclus was the best at what he did. 

Chiron listens patiently, watching him pace about with keen eyes, and Achilles occasionally feels a little self-conscious and silly talking about Patroclus when he should be telling him about the war and everything he saw there and how it’s been affecting him. But somehow, without Achilles realising it, their conversations always end up spiralling back to Patroclus.

Chiron smiles a small, knowing smile as he asks, “If you don’t know, why don’t you ask him?”

“Ask him what?”

“Ask him what’s going on.” 

Achilles gapes at him like a fool for a moment. “No,” he says with a little laugh. “Ask him? No.”

“Why not?”

“Because…”

Achilles isn’t entirely sure what to tell him. Ever since they started sleeping together, he’s been surprised by the rawness, the physicality of it, the pure need. It made sense at first, considering how long they’d been apart. Achilles can count the times he’s been away from Patroclus for more than a day since they met on the fingers of one hand, and that had been just about the worst time for them to be apart. 

It was hell. The last few months of the war were hell on earth, and being away from Patroclus made it even worse, and Achilles isn’t exactly sure how he made it out sane, but he has, and so has Patroclus. And time has passed, more than enough for the steam to blow off, to find some semblance of a normal pace, but they’re still having sex like the world is about to end and neither of them talks about it after, and it’s starting to feel as if it’s just this. As if they’re just friends, but with another layer to complicate things. 

It’s not that it isn’t enjoyable —oh, it’s great, totally— but Achilles wants more. So, so much more. He’s simply... too afraid to ask. 

“Because we don’t talk about things like that,” he says. “We’ve always got on fine without analysing everything, we understood each other without talking. This is… this is different.”

“What's the worst thing that could happen if you talked to him?” 

Perhaps it will ruin our friendship, he wants to tell him. Perhaps it will make things awkward, more awkward than they already are. Perhaps they've simply ruined what they had, and bringing it up will just make it worse. They've moved from childhood friends to brothers in arms to this, and neither of them knows how to handle it. And it’s odd not to talk about it, it's odd to keep secrets from each other, because Patroclus is more himself than he is; Achilles doesn't even know who he is without Patroclus. He's always been that point of reference, always, his North Star. They've always been together, and if they lose this, what then? What will happen to them then? 

Chiron is watching him now, waiting for him to speak, and Achilles doesn’t know what to tell him.

Truth is, some things are hard to explain.  

He clenches his jaw, looks away. “Let’s just talk about something else.”

Chiron leans back in his chair, gently tapping his pen to the stack of papers before him on the desk. “How are your nightmares?”

It’s mid-July now, and the sun burns hotter than it ever has in living memory. Achilles decides to take matters into his own hands. To act. To do what he does best.

Patroclus is at his desk, squinting at his summer exam schedule on his laptop screen. It’s hot as a kiln in the room, even with the window open, and he’s wearing nothing but his checkered blue boxers. His tan skin is gleaming in the light that streams in through the window, just a hint of sweat in between his shoulder blades from their earlier activities. 

Achilles pushes himself up on his elbow on the bed. “Let’s go to dinner.”

“Sure, yeah,” Patroclus says distractedly, still squinting at the screen. “What do you want, pizza or Chinese?”

“No. I mean dinner-dinner.” At Patroclus’ perplexed stare, he adds, “Like a date. You and me.”

They both stay silent for a while. Patroclus pushes his glasses up his nose, blinks slowly at him. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Sure. Yeah.” 

Achilles grins at him, and Patroclus blushes as he returns to his screen. “Let me just finish this and I’ll get ready,” he mumbles. 

“Cool. I’ll make the reservations.” Achilles gets off the bed, his heart beating all giddy and excited, and he even sneaks a kiss on Patroclus’ cheek before reaching for his phone on the living room table. 

A date. An actual date, dinner and a movie, the works. Achilles chooses a restaurant near the south coast, by the sea, with nice music and a wine list, all fancy. He wants it to be something different, something they’ve never done before. What they have is new, so why shouldn’t the places they go to be new as well?

It’s awkward, and they’re both a bit nervous. Patroclus sits very stiff on his chair, and looks at the wine list with a tad of apprehension and confusion, as if he’s suddenly forgotten how to read. 

“I’ll have whatever you have,” he says as he sets the menu down, and takes a sip from his water.

The first course comes out. Neither of them really knows what to say, so they talk about the food, and the music, and the weather. Achilles’ mouth keeps going dry, so he has another glass of wine, and another. He can’t help but study Patroclus' profile in the soft evening light, the way his eyes sparkle with the lanterns overhead, gently swinging with the sea breeze. 

The waves lap at the rocks below, and Achilles is telling him a joke he heard the other day as he was walking down Syntagma square. Patroclus laughs, his head falling back and exposing the smooth column of his throat, and it’s the most dizzying sound Achilles has ever heard. It warms him beyond words.

Patroclus is beautiful. He really is. Achilles wants to tell him just how lovely he is, how happy he is that they're there, both of them, after everything that's happened. He reaches out to place his hand on Patroclus’ on the table, but at the same time he does that Patroclus picks up his wine glass without noticing the gesture. 

So Achilles draws his hand back. He picks up his own glass and takes a large sip to calm his nerves. 

They can do this. They’ve been through worse, much worse, they can get through one date. 

The movie is good, though not great. Achilles doesn’t pay much attention to it, not really. It’s a romantic film about a girl who leaves her hometown and goes to the big city, and meets her true love there. It’s a bit boring but funny in places. Achilles doesn’t like these types of films, but all the other ones playing that day are action films, and he knows how jumpy Patroclus gets with them sometimes, with the guns and the explosions and all that. They stir up bad memories, and he gets that, so they never watch films like this. 

For most of the movie, he wonders what he should do with his hands. Should he reach out, put his arm around Patroclus’ shoulders? Should he lean closer, kiss him in the half-empty theatre? He kind of wants to do that, but something tells him it might be too much, too soon. 

He reaches for his hand instead, where it’s lying on the armrest, and gives it a small squeeze. 

“I’m glad we’re doing this,” he whispers softly. 

Patroclus turns to look at him, his eyes gleaming oddly in the bright, shifting light of the screen. He opens his mouth to say something, but immediately seems to regret it. His lips fall shut and he swallows, but he gives Achilles’ fingers a squeeze back. They stay like that for the rest of the film, with their fingers intertwined. 

It’s not much, but it’s something. 

Achilles tells Chiron about it, after. He’s all giddy and flushed, and he’s pacing about the room again, gesturing in the air as he speaks. He’s lost track of the times he thought of going on a date with Patroclus before. It has been one of his fantasies forever now, and now it actually happened and— okay, perhaps it didn’t go how he'd imagined. But it was good. It was really good. 

They even went back to Achilles’ place after, and they slept together even though Patroclus isn’t really comfortable sleeping with others. He’s a light sleeper, and despite the fact that they used to sleep together all the time as kids, and later, in the army, they used to share a bunk bed, ever since coming back home he’s been reluctant to stay the night. 

But this time he did. Achilles moved all the way to the far side of the bed and lay on his side, giving him ample space. Later, in the night, when he was half asleep, he felt Patroclus’ arm coming around his waist, his breath warming the back of his neck. 

“I’m glad we’re doing this, too,” he said in a low whisper. 

Achilles felt his eyes stinging, and his lungs were suddenly full with something that he couldn’t put to words. He said nothing, just took Patroclus’ hand in his own and kept it there, and they stayed like this for the rest of the night. 

Chiron shares his enthusiasm, he smiles as he watches him walk up and down and talk with his hands. He’s too nervous to sit still. He has this sudden urge to go to Patroclus, to clear the air, to fix everything. He wants to make everything right, and he wants to do it now, now that he has the chance. No one knows what tomorrow may bring.

“You aren't at war anymore, Achilles.”

He stops his pacing. Chiron's told him this before, countless times. It’s the main reason why he started therapy anyway, because the war is finally over. It’s always a bit of a surprise to hear, though.

“I know,” he says. Achilles takes a deep breath and lets his hands fall. “This is different. It isn’t about war. This is Patroclus.” Patroclus has always been his refuge from the war, from everything that was going on around them. 

“It’s still war, for you. Not everything is a threat that needs to be dealt with head on. This isn’t a fight-or-flight situation.” Chiron puts his pen down and looks at him levelly. “You have your whole life ahead of you. You both do.”

Life. What an odd concept. 

The thought of all those years ahead of him, a seemingly endless array of them, is scaring him more than he dares to admit. Back in Troy, when things got especially rough, when the enemy aircrafts would fly close to their base every few hours during the night, and the sounds of far away explosions made the ground vibrate, he and Patroclus would huddle in their bunk beds together and talk about what they would do once the war was over. Once they were back home. It was a way to pass the time, to laugh at old memories, but it was more than that, too.

They would talk about Achilles’ home in Phthia, where they both grew up. They would talk about their old classmates, and how they used to go to the beach and stay there until sundown. They would talk about snacking on oreos while covered in sand, and waiting for the kettle to boil in the kitchen at 2am for those instant ramen noodles Patroclus likes and Achilles hates; about roaming the town on their bikes, and later going back home to watch their favourite shows on TV sprawled on the couch, until Peleus, exasperated, would tell them to go to bed already.

It made things more bearable, more normal. A little more like home. 

Deep down, Achilles isn’t sure whether either of them believed they would get to do those things again. He never knew for sure that he would outlive the war; when they were all told it was finally over, he felt numb. Some days he still is, and, judging by the distant and detached quality Patroclus’ gaze often takes, it must be the same for him too.

Perhaps, Achilles thinks, this is why they’re both like this. They’re reaching for each other frantically, like there's no tomorrow, because for the longest time they didn't know whether there would be one. Sometimes, it seems like they’re living as if they have no time left, or like they’re making up for all the time they’ve lost, barely stopping to take anything in. As if they’ll stop breathing as soon as they stop running.

Part of him never left Troy. Achilles realises that now. Compared to what they went through in the war, there are times when his life now feels like a cop-out, a doss, a soft option. Like all this is just a dream, a fiction he told himself and that he would cling to those moments in the cockpit that felt never ending, when he was sure he wouldn’t make it out alive, and his only comfort was Patroclus’ voice, steady and calming, through the radio. 

Achilles’ dreams usually go like this: he’s at the beach with Patroclus, the one close to his house in Phthia where they always used to go to as children. The sun is slowly dipping in the distant horizon, half submerged in the water already, painting the sky around them in violet and gold, in amber and pink. Patroclus is beside him, toes buried in the sand, head thrown back as he laughs. He’s laughing at a joke Achilles told him, and the sound makes Achilles grin inside out. 

The hum of the engines is distant at first, coming from far away, but it’s slowly getting closer. Achilles knows what it means: it makes no sense, because they’re both kids in the dream and he shouldn’t have known about enemy aircrafts and the like, but it’s a dream so it’s all merging together. He takes Patroclus’ hand and takes him away from the beach, running as fast as he can. He has to get away. 

They run past the street that leads to the beach, past the shops lined along the coast. They get lost in the lanes in between the houses even though Achilles knows them like the back of his hand, and before he knows it, they’re in the dry and dusty plains of Troy. He looks up and sees the F16s flying overhead, and there’s nowhere left to hide. 

“Stay with me,” he tells Patroclus, tightening his hold on his hand, but it’s slipping through his fingers already. 

The world goes black, then it is engulfed in flames. Patroclus is nowhere to be seen, and it’s just Achilles in the fire, looking for him. His heart is pounding in his chest like crazy, making him dizzy, and the smoke is choking him, but he doesn’t stop. He’ll never stop, not until he finds him. He’s searching, searching—

More often than not, Achilles wakes up drenched in sweat, with Patroclus’ name stuck in the back of his throat. It takes him a while to take in his surroundings, for his heart to calm down. Less and less each time, but the terror is still there. 

The same it was the night when everything happened. 

It’s almost a year back now. The moon is still up when Achilles gets out of bed for his night air patrol. Patroclus is already up, sipping on some coffee from the vending machine in the mess hall when Achilles gets there. There are faint dark circles under his eyes, and he looks a little gaunt, but that’s to be expected. No one has been sleeping well those past few weeks, not with all those extra patrols they’ve been needing to do. Despite his weariness, Patroclus smiles at him and offers him a cup. 

Achilles takes a sip and wrinkles his nose at the strong taste. “Yep. Wide awake now. Just what I needed.” 

Patroclus takes a look at the face Achilles makes and laughs, the sound of it reverberating in the empty hall, bright and full. It still rings in Achilles’ ears when they part. Patroclus makes his way to the ground control center, and Achilles drives to the runway. His team is waiting for him by the aircrafts. 

“Took you long enough, Pelides,” Agamemnon, his team leader, tells him as soon as he arrives. 

Achilles tosses the rest of his coffee back, ignoring him, and throws the paper cup in the nearest bin before climbing into the cockpit. 

It’s like second nature to him, being there. The sinking feeling during take-off, the satisfaction of a smooth flight, the thrill of taking his plane through tough weather, he likes it all. He likes how good he is at it. He’s the best in the air force, everyone knows that. 

“Lionheart, state your position.”

Achilles ‘Lionheart’ Pelides; that’s what everyone’s been calling him for years now. He likes to think it’s on account of the many victorious missions he’s taken part in. Soon he’ll be in charge of his own group, Agamemnon has so much as promised him another promotion. 

He smiles at Patroclus’ voice through the radio. Smooth and mellow, always calm, always clear, not too fast, not too slow: the perfect operator voice. 

“Lionheart, November three-five-zero Juliet Alpha Bravo, 6600 climbing.”

A short pause, then the instructions come in. “Climb maintained, 7100 turn right, head South Westbound. Airway clear. Wind at 99 knots, minimum turbulence. Looking good, Lionheart.”

Achilles sits back, curls his palm around the control stick and lets himself glide on. He knows this route like the back of his hand; has been doing it for years. The lights of Antilochus’ aircraft, his wingman, twinkle in the dying night, a few degrees to his left. 

It’s a beautiful night, with a clear sky. The constellations are bright in the dark. He can see Ophiuchus ahead of him, Polaris astern, the Pleiades to his left, and he remembers all those nights he and Patroclus would spend stargazing when they were little, naming this or that constellation, talking about everything and nothing. Achilles had wanted to be a pilot even then, but Patroclus has always been a little afraid of heights.

If you go, you know I’ll go with you, Patroclus told him once, years before the war broke out. Achilles had laughed then, thought he’d said it as a joke, but he knows now that Patroclus never just says things like this.

It’s good, knowing that Patroclus is there with him, even through the radio. It anchors him. Keeps him afloat. 

He’s almost at the end of his patrol when the radio comes on again. 

“Traffic at five miles, descending from 6500. Unidentified and potentially hostile aircrafts, eleven o’clock. Stay on your guard, Lionheart.”

Achilles leans forward just slightly. He can’t see anything in the dark, but a tendril of fear coils in his stomach. Enemy planes, so close to their base? And flying so low? He keeps his eyes and ears peeled, waits for more instructions that never come. 

“Lionheart, requesting further instruction. Come in, Control.”

A short while later, the radio comes back on. Patroclus’ voice is calm, but Achilles knows him well enough to detect the edge in it. He has switched channels, reaching all the aircrafts in his team. “Team Hailfire, maintain your positions. Hostile aircrafts spotted at three miles from base, 6000 and descending. No sign of enemy fire. Do not return to base. I repeat, do not—”

The radio goes dead with a flat static sound. 

At the same time, a loud explosion on Achilles’ right, far below on the ground. Then another, and another. Missile after missile is launched towards their base, reaching the ground in an eruption of flames and smoke. From so far up, they look like bonfires in the night.

“What now, lieutenant?” Antilochus asks from the next aircraft over, through the private channel. 

They’re totally blind in the dark without the ground control’s guidance. He’s had years of training for situations like this, he knows protocol like the back of his hand, but it all drains out of him in a split second, slips through his fingers like sand. He knows he’s supposed to keep position and await for further instruction, but he finds himself unable to do that. 

Achilles switches the channel with quick, practiced fingers. “Lionheart, requesting permission to land.”

“Negative,” comes Agamemnon’s swift response. “Maintain position, Lionheart. Reinforcements are on their way.”

Achilles glances down at the ground again, and suddenly he can’t breathe. It’s too far up for him to know where the smoke and flames are coming from, but it doesn’t take long to figure out what the Trojans have been targeting. 

The fear that has coiled in his gut now squeezes hard. There’s cold sweat running down his spine, making his shirt cling to his skin beneath his flight suit. Without a second thought, he pulls the control stick, changing course so abruptly that he is stuck to his seat, the skin of his face is pulled back. If he’s not careful he might even lose consciousness, but Achilles is beyond caring now. 

“Lionheart, initiating descent. Departing controlled flight route,” he grunts into his mic. “Over.”

Agamemnon’s voice is hurried, panicked in his ears. “Negative,” he says, “maintain position. Do you copy, Lionheart? Repeat for confirmation. Lionheart, repeat for—”

Achilles switches the radio off, and dives. 

It’s risky. Very risky. He gets why Agamemnon wants them all to stay in the air. Without information from the base, he might as well run into another aircraft or misjudge the distance and crash hard during landing. The fires close to the runway and his instincts are his only guides as he clenches his jaw, and prepares to land. 

It’s the least graceful landing he’s ever had to perform. Not even as a cadet did he go through so many bumps, tires screeching, sparks flying all over the place. He very nearly misses a tree, the branches scratching against the glass. By the time he kicks open the jammed door, he thinks his spine has taken that hard of a beating that it’s never going to be the same again. 

As soon as his feet touch the ground, Achilles runs. 

He runs like he’s never run before. His heart is beating so hard in his ears that he only barely hears the hiss of the missiles and the hum of the aircrafts above, the deafening blast of the alarm sirens going off, the crackling of flames. Half the buildings in the eastern part of the base are in flames, smoke and debris and broken chunks of cement everywhere he looks. Armed divisions are already being deployed; countless vehicles rush past him, but Achilles hardly sees them. 

His eyes are locked straight ahead, at the ground control building. Which is engulfed in flames, fiery red tongues licking up towards the sky.

“Where is Patroclus?” he asks Menelaus, when he spots him outside the building. 

Menelaus gives him a blank stare. There are people coming and going, firefighters trying to put out the fire, but Achilles sees no one, hears nothing. He grabs Menelaus’ arm, and his voice, when he speaks, is shaking. “Menoetiades, where is he? Where is he?”

“We’re trying to get them out,” Menelaus tells him, eyes red and gleaming from the smoke and the flames. “We’re trying to get everyone out.”

“Fuck,” Achilles hisses, lets him go. He runs past the parked ambulances, shoves his way past the throngs of firemen, ignores their shouts. 

Two steps in the burning building, and his skin already feels like it’s boiling in his suit. 

Achilles grits his teeth, forges on. He knows that Patroclus’ desk is on the first floor, so he ducks and dashes through the burning furniture, the collapsing beams, the peeling, melting plaster that’s falling from the ceiling. By the time he’s up the stairs, he’s sure he’s going to pass out from the molten air gliding down his throat. 

But he pushes through. He’s got tunnel vision; he won't leave until he finds Patroclus. When he sees a pair of legs that look suspiciously like his, sprawled behind a fallen desk, his blood runs cold despite the flames that are raging all around him. 

Patroclus is in bad shape, that much he can see, even with the smoke obscuring his vision. The left side of his uniform is charred, injured skin peeking underneath. Achilles tears the scarf that he’s put before his nose and mouth and ties it over Patroclus’, as gently as he can with his hands shaking. 

“Stay with me,” he tells him. The groan Patroclus lets out when Achilles carefully tosses him over his shoulder is half-dead. “I got you, buddy. I got you.”

Getting out is harder than going in; even knowing the quarters so well, he still almost loses his way once or twice. He can barely see anymore, and he sure as hell can’t breathe, but he’s pushing through. Pushing through, until he can see the swirling lights of the firefighting vehicles outside, and he almost collapses when he trips over a water hose. 

He lays Patroclus gently on ground, blinks through tears, coughs out the blackened smoke that he’s inhaled. Patroclus’ brow is smudged black with ashes, and Achilles brushes his fingers over it like he’s handling precious glass. 

“Stay with me,” he pleads, hoarse and strained. Patroclus doesn’t open his eyes; he’s barely breathing. “Stay with me. Patroclus, stay with me.”

Long after the medics have taken him away, as Achilles waits outside the infirmary, as the day steadily grows older, and older, Achilles still thinks: stay with me, stay with me, stay with me.

The rest is pretty much a blur. Patroclus is relieved of duty on account of his injury. Achilles gets a new combat systems operator, and he’s not quite as good as Patroclus, but it doesn’t matter anymore, nothing does. Every day is exactly the same, and he doesn’t even care about the demotion he gets after directly disregarding Agamemnon’s commands and engaging enemy aircrafts in a daring move that was called suicidal by many. 

Achilles is tired. He just wants the war to be over.

Chiron's office is quiet. There's only the sound of passing cars from the street below, but Achilles thinks he can still hear the crackling of flames, the choppers flying overhead.

“You aren't at war anymore, Achilles.”

Achilles knows that. He knows. It still doesn’t stop his eyes from stinging when he finally works up the courage to tell Chiron about it all, his throat from clenching when he thinks of that night, like he’s still in a burning building full of smoke. And he’s tried to get over it, he’s tried to forget —he has, he really has— but some moments just stick with you. 

It’s funny, he thinks, how he’s responsible for so many deaths, how he’s seen things that would have been considered far more horrifying, but it’s the memory of Patroclus, unconscious and covered in smoke and dust from head to foot, that’s still haunting him. 

“What you went through was terrifying, but you’re safe now,” Chiron tells him. “You both are."

Talking about it might help, he says. That’s his assignment when he returns home: to write down on a piece of paper everything he wants to tell Patroclus, all the thoughts in his mind, what he’s been too scared to tell him all those months. Achilles thinks about everything as he walks back home, tries to arrange it in his head in order of importance. He knows it’s going to be good for both of them if he does that, he knows it’ll help.

When he gets back, he simply stares at the blank page in his journal. The words just don’t come, no matter how hard he tries. 

It’s fine, he tells himself as he sets the pen down. It’s going to be fine. He doesn’t need to write it all down and prepare a speech. He’s never been good at speeches; it’s best if he just talks from the heart. Patroclus and he never hid from each other, he’ll say it how it is. 

He tells himself all those things, and he sort of feels better about it, but he still cries a little standing in the kitchen while he waits for the kettle to boil for tea. He’s exhausted when he finally goes to bed that night, like he’s truly been flying his F-16 all day. 

It’s Patroclus’ last night in town before he has to leave for a trip for college. His class is all going to some agricultural facility up north to work there for a couple days, study the animals, maybe help a few cows during labour. Achilles takes him to the beach in his car, and they stay there all day, swimming and lying in the sun. It’s full dark now, and a bit chilly, so they go back to the car for a beer and a smoke before heading home. 

The beers and smokes are swiftly abandoned as they start kissing, with Patroclus half on Achilles’ lap. His fingers are in Achilles’ hair, and he’s making those sounds in the back of his throat that make Achilles’ blood race. His lips are so soft, and they taste of salt and sand, his tongue still cool from the beer when it brushes over his own. Achilles’ arm is wound around his waist, pulling him closer, fingers slithering under his tee shirt. 

He pulls back just a bit, and the look in Patroclus’ eyes is so dreamy, so tender, cheeks flushed and lips glistening from their kisses, and it makes Achilles’ heart ache in his chest, his breath catch in his throat. 

“Stay with me,” he blurts out, before he’s even realised he’s spoken. 

Patroclus freezes in the act of smoothing his palm over Achilles' chest. He blinks at him, and his big, owl-like eyes look a little glassy in the yellow light of the street lamp slithering in through the car window. 

“I… am with you,” he says, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side in question. 

“I know,” Achilles says quickly. His pulse is thumping in his temples now; he’s not quite sure what to say. “I just…” 

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip. Words are ready to spill out of him in a torrent, and he’s not sure if he should let them. 

“I missed you,” he finally says. “When you were gone. That’s all.”

“When I was…” Patroclus is still puzzled for a few moments, but then it clicks. “After I left Troy?”

Achilles nods, and his throat feels tight again. There’s a look in Patroclus’ eyes, one he can’t quite decipher. It’s full of pain and understanding, and something like guilt, and it makes Achilles want to cry, but he doesn’t know why. 

“Achilles…” Patroclus starts, then stops. There’s more he wants to say, Achilles can tell, but he holds back. He’s still somewhat rigid in his arms, like he wants to bolt, but then he lets out a slow breath and leans into him again, placing his head on Achilles’ shoulder. 

They don’t have sex that night. They don’t talk much, either. They just sort of… stay in the car and make out until the sun rises. Their lips glide in soft, slow kisses, and Achilles can’t remember the last time they kissed like this. He’s not sure they ever have.

That, too, feels different. It feels new.

The water for the pasta is bubbling merrily on the stove. Achilles can’t cook for shit, but he thinks he can boil some spaghetti as well as the next man. He’s never really had to cook for himself, but he thinks he might start doing just that now. 

I want to do something special for you when you come back, he texted Patroclus a couple days ago.

Like what?

idk. Cook something maybe 

That special?

Achilles laughed at that. Patroclus knows as well as he does that he’s no good around a kitchen, but, hey, I can learn. How hard is it to make beef stroganoff, anyway?

Should I book an appointment with the doctor, just in case?

Joke all you like. You’ll be asking for seconds, mark my words

Patroclus sent him a gif of a muppet staring into a zooming camera. Achilles had found that kind of funny, all things considered, but it quickly became a matter of pride for him. He resolved to make Patroclus the best pasta he’s ever tried. He’s not quite sure he'll be able to do that now, but sometimes showing up and showing out is all that matters, right?

At least that’s what he tells himself as he squints at the sauce recipe on his phone. 

They’ve been texting and talking on the phone a lot more since that night, all the while Patroclus has been away for his college trip. It’s nice, Achilles finds, to wake up to Patroclus’ texts everyday, the photos he sends him of the farm and the cattle. Sometimes he sneaks in a selfie or two, and Achilles catches himself staring at his bright, smiling face rather than the meadows in the background, or the sheepdogs he’s made friends with there. He looks happy, content, and it makes Achilles smile too. 

Last night, the night before his return, they talked on the phone for nearly two hours. Achilles told him about his day, his guitar lesson and his track session, and listened while Patroclus told him about his own. The connection was a little choppy —the farm is quite far out— but Achilles didn’t want the call to end.

“Gotta go,” Patroclus said, though it sounded reluctant. “Got a big day tomorrow.” He hung on the call for a while longer, not speaking, then he said, “I miss you, Achilles.”

Patroclus’ words took him by surprise. Achilles stayed silent for a few quick moments. 

“I miss you, too,” he said finally. “And I— I can’t wait to see you again.”

After Patroclus hung up, he stayed for a while where he'd been standing by the window, gazing out into the empty street. He played the last few minutes of their conversation over and over in his mind, and his lungs swelled with something warm and bright and hopeful, something that he couldn’t quite explain. 

Even now, when he thinks about it, he gets a little teary-eyed for some reason. Man, it’s the small things that get him these days. 

Patroclus arrives just as he’s struggling to unstick the last of the pasta from the pan. It turns out being a little overcooked, and the sauce a little undercooked, but nothing a generous amount of cheese and good wine can’t fix. Patroclus is polite enough not to comment on his cooking skills, and only tells him how much he’s improved over the past couple of months. 

That’s Patroclus, though. He wouldn’t say anything mean to someone to save his life. It’s one of the things about him Achilles has always found endearing, if a bit frustrating at times. 

They move over to the couch afterwards, with their half-full wine glasses. They talk about this and that, about Patroclus’ trip back home, his fellow students, the animals he treated. The conversation reaches a sort of a lull, then falls into a tense, if rather brief, silence. 

It’s Patroclus that makes the first move. He sets his glass on the table and leans closer. His lips taste of sweet, chilled wine, a hint of their dinner. He moans softly as he deepens the kiss, as his fingers thread through Achilles’ hair like they always do, and he’s so warm against him that Achilles can’t help but pull him closer. 

Patroclus pushes himself up, climbs into Achilles’ lap, straddles him. His palms smooth up his arms, his pecs, and Achilles can feel him shivering, his grip tightening. 

“I want you,” he whispers. He rolls his hips, presses himself against him. “I missed you.”

Achilles takes in a breath, just to get a hold of himself. Leaning into Patroclus’ kiss is far easier than breaking it, pulling him closer and feeling his skin warming up through his clothes is far preferable to pulling away, but Achilles wants this time to be different. He wants to take this slow, to make it last, make it count. He wants to do it right. 

Patroclus gasps into his mouth when Achilles stands up, with him still in his lap. His gasp dissolves into nervous laughter, and he wraps his legs around his waist as Achilles walks them both into the bedroom.  

“You missed me too, I think,” he teases. “You can just say so.”

“I did. That’s no secret.” Achilles lays him down on the bed, hovers over him. “I just wanted to make sure that we actually made it to the bed this time.”

Patroclus huffs a quiet laugh, but his eyes are curious, his gaze just a bit tense. He can probably already tell that this time is different, that Achilles is different. He watches carefully as Achilles sits back on his heels and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Because of course he put on a button down shirt this time. It’s supposed to be special, right?

Patroclus’ palm is on his chest as soon as the fabric is removed, smoothing down towards his stomach. His touch is slower, more tentative than usual, exploratory. He glances up at Achilles when his fingers reach the buckle of his belt, as if waiting for Achilles’ approval.

Achilles wants to hold back, but he isn’t made of stone. He nods. 

Patroclus’ fingers, his mouth— they feel so good on him. His mind always goes warm and fuzzy the very moment his soft, full lips wrap around him, enveloping him in wet heat. Achilles sighs, watching him bob slowly, and brushes his curls away from his brow. 

“Beautiful,” he whispers, thinking out loud. 

Patroclus pauses. He slides off him and licks his lips, eyes wide in question. “What?”

Achilles blinks to clear the fog from his mind. Patroclus is still stroking him slowly, his fist gliding rhythmically up and down his length. The soft light on the bedside lamp is soft, illuminating the side of his face.

Achilles cups the back of his neck and pulls him up. He kisses him slowly, tenderly, as he guides him on his back on the bed. He breaks the kiss only long enough to slither his fingers under Patroclus’ shirt and tug it over his head, then sits up to look upon the expanse of smooth, tan skin over his chest, his stomach. “You’re beautiful, Patroclus,” he says. 

A warm blush creeps up Patroclus’ cheeks. He’s embarrassed, Achilles can tell. He never likes it overly much when people comment on his appearance, whether it’s good or bad. He’s always thought himself plain; it’s just who he is. But, to Achilles, he’s anything but.

Patroclus looks away. A small shiver runs through him when Achilles runs his palm over his chest. 

“Do you want me to stop?” Achilles asks. 

“No,” Patroclus says quickly. He darts a glance back at him, his flush getting brighter. His bashfulness is gone in an instant as he pulls Achilles down to him, prying his lips open with his tongue. His fingers slide down between them, curling around him once more. “I want you. Stop teasing and just take me already.” 

Achilles has to laugh at the breathy demand in his voice. “I don’t intend to ‘just’ anything tonight.” He catches both of Patroclus’ hands and pins them above his head. His grip is loose enough that he can break free whenever he wants, but something tells Achilles he won’t. “I want to take my time with you. Is that alright?”

Patroclus’ breath hitches, but he gives a slow nod. “Okay.”

“Good.” Achilles leans down to kiss him as he reaches down to work the buttons of Patroclus’ jeans open. Pushing them down and off him with one hand is tricky, but he manages it without letting Patroclus go. 

He stays still for a moment, hovering over him, just… looking at him. His body looks so good in the dim light, shadows pooling in the dip in his collarbone, the definition of his stomach, the line that connects his hip to his groin. The scar that covers his left upper arm and part of his shoulder from his injury is softer now than it used to be, but he knows how self-conscious Patroclus is about it. Achilles’ palm follows his eyes, fingers running over the raised scar tissue with care and reverence, caressing every line. He can feel the tremors that are running under Patroclus’ skin, sees the hairs that stand on end whenever he touches him. 

“I thought about you a lot,” he says softly, caressing the ladder of his ribs, brushing down his stomach, teasing the tangle of dark curls at his navel. He watches as Patroclus’ head falls back when he takes him in hand. He strokes him slowly, gently, brushes his thumb over the glistening tip, just to coax those little sighs and gasps out of him. 

“You did?”

“Yes.” He plants small kisses along his cheek, the line of his jaw, the side of his neck. “You are always on my mind, Patroclus.”

Patroclus gasps, arching into his touch. He’s still guarded and reserved, but the more Achilles speaks the more he feels him relaxing and leaning into him. Patroclus shivers in anticipation when Achilles reaches for the lube bottle by his bedside table, slicks a generous amount on his fingers. 

“I keep looking at all the pictures you send me,” he whispers, reaching down between his legs. “I can’t take my eyes off your smile. You have a beautiful smile.”

Patroclus moans softly as he rocks onto Achilles hand, his fists opening and closing helplessly above his head. “Achilles,” he gasps, “Achilles, please—”

“Not yet.” Achilles pushes in another finger, kisses his hair. “I told you I’d take my time.”

A breathy, needy whine leaves Patroclus, but he soon settles down, spreads his legs wider apart. There’s a tension in him that’s still there, lying under the surface, but Achilles is determined to go slow, to give them both this time, this space.

“I want to make this good for you.”

"It is," Patroclus sighs. "It's good. It's so, so good."

"I want," Achilles tells him, “to make this good for us. For both of us. I want this to be special. Because— because you’re special to me.”

At this, Patroclus goes very still, very quiet. He edges back to look at him, and Achilles can see something sharp and curious stirring in his eyes, some sort of recognition. Achilles grabs at it, and pulls. 

“You’re special. You always have been. I’ve wanted you for years."

"S-since when?"

"Always, I think. I've always liked you. Wanted you.”

Patroclus blinks, and Achilles smiles helplessly at him. It’s funny, in a way, how his eyes are stinging again, and he’s making a full-blown confession to his best friend that he’s been in love with for years, while being knuckle deep inside him. 

Oh, well. Achilles has never been one for timing. 

Patroclus is holding his breath, glancing at each one of his eyes. “You have?” he whispers. 

“Yes, I have,” Achilles says, and by God, this time he won’t hold anything back. “I knew for sure at fifteen, but I think it started when I met you. When you first came to the house. I’ve been wanting to tell you for years, but—” He pauses. “I guess I never found the right time. I guess this is the right time.”

Patroclus keeps staring at him. Achilles is feeling a little ridiculous now, going on about it when he should be trying to get in the mood and act all confident and suave. He lets Patroclus’ wrists go and pulls back to sit on his heels, and for the first time, perhaps ever, he’s painfully aware of his own nakedness, his hard-on, the warmth that’s creeping up his cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t plan to say anything. I didn’t mean to spoil the mood, but you’re... and I’m...”

He pauses again, swallows thickly. He gazes at Patroclus’ eyes, and studies the way they glitter like wet glass in the half light, remembers the way they’ve always had this liquid quality about them, before he takes the plunge. 

“I love you. I just do. I’ve loved you forever and you’re a part of me. I don’t know how to be in this world without you, and I don’t want to find out.” 

No one speaks for a long beat. The hum of distant traffic drifting through the half open window, a door opening and closing down the hall of his apartment building. Achilles holds his breath, and wonders whether he fucked things up for real this time, when Patroclus lifts himself up. 

He doesn’t say anything. He simply reaches for him.

The split seconds his fingers hover in the air before they fall gently on Achilles’ skin feel like a leap from a waterfall. Patroclus’s palms smooth over his arms, his shoulders. He leans in and kisses him, his shaky breath warming Achilles’ lips, and this time it’s slow, and deep, and so full of emotion and longing, like he’s been holding everything back all this time and now it’s all trickling out of him, shy raindrops before a storm.

Patroclus pulls him back down on the mattress, guides him on his back. Achilles brings up no resistance —he doesn’t think he has any left at all— when Patroclus takes him in hand and straddles him. He’s half-prepared for another round of frantic, hurried coupling; in fact he’s secretly hoping for it, just to disperse that tense silence that’s fallen between them, but Patroclus is slow. Gentle. Careful. He holds Achilles’ gaze as he sinks down on him, and from this close Achilles can watch the slight shifts in his expression, the way his lids fall heavily over his eyes. A soft moan escapes Achilles when he’s sheathed to the hilt, his palms smoothing up Patroclus’ thighs to keep him in place for a moment, just for a breath. 

“Patroclus,” he whispers, strained, as he feels him rocking on top of him, slowly, slowly. He looks up at him, and he’s just so overwhelmingly beautiful in the dim light, with his head falling back, his curls caressing his shoulders. Achilles cups his neck and pulls him down to him to kiss him, to hug him, to hold him. 

Stay with me, he wants to say, but it doesn’t feel quite right anymore. Patroclus is there with him. He is there, and Achilles will always be there, and that’s all that matters. 

Patroclus hugs him back, wrapping his arms around him. They move together, slowly at first, then picking up their pace until they’re both gasping against each other’s skin, but it’s still gentle. Unhurried. Mellow, swaying to some internal rhythm that’s known only to them. Achilles buries his nose in Patroclus’ hair, lets his lungs fill with his scent, his warmth. He whispers his name, again and again as he lets go, thrusting more eagerly, getting lost in him. Patroclus’ lips on his own drown out his moans as he finds his peak, and Patroclus is not far behind, riding him through his own finish. 

Achilles’ arms are still wrapped around him, holding him close as he closes his eyes. Even with his eyes closed though, it’s him he sees, it’s his image that’s burned behind his eyelids, it’s his smile that flashes before him, always at the back of his mind, his dark and knowing eyes, his kind smile. His heart is thumping in his chest, and it’s so full that it hurts, he feels overfull, but he doesn’t want this to end. He doesn’t want this moment to end.  

Patroclus takes in a trembling breath, his chest swelling under Achilles’ arms.

“People say,” he whispers, “that when you’re about to die, your whole life flashes before your eyes.”

Achilles goes perfectly still, the breath that has been gliding down his throat catching. He waits, ears pricked up, for Patroclus to continue.

But Patroclus doesn’t continue. He falls silent again, tiny shivers running over his skin. Achilles reaches up, caressing the messy tangle of curls at the nape of his neck. 

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Achilles says quietly.

He feels Patroclus swallowing thickly, tensing in his hold. When he speaks, his voice is but a whisper. 

“Some days, I close my eyes and all I can think of is the fire. When I was in the fire, all I could think of was you.” His hands on Achilles' shoulders tremble, gather into fists. “I thought of you, sitting under the willow tree in the backyard in Phthia, reading one of your father’s books. I thought of you, running down the beach in the summer. I thought of your hair, the way it looks in the sun. People say, your life flashes before your eyes when you die, but all I could see was you.” 

Patroclus lifts his head to look at him, and his eyes are glistening. “It's you,” he whispers. “It's always been you.”

Achilles gazes long at him, as the tiny silver drops escape the confines of Patroclus’ eyes to glide down his cheeks. He tries to find words, words large enough to encompass everything he feels, everything he thinks, all the things he wants to tell him, all the things that have been difficult for both of them to say, but words are futile. 

“Patroclus,” he whispers. He brushes the tears away with his thumb, kisses his cheeks, his lips, his damp eyelashes. “Patroclus. Patroclus. Patroclus.” He gathers him against him, whispers soothing words to him. He holds him as he shivers, lets him hide in the crook of his neck.

“I love you,” Achilles says as he caresses his hair, his back. “I love you,” he says as he kisses him, over and over. “I love you,” he says when Patroclus’ tears have finally ebbed and he’s breathing softly against him, drifting into sleep. 

Some things are hard to explain. But not this. 

Just before sleep claims him too, he feels Patroclus’ lips move slowly against the skin of his neck. 

“I love you too,” he whispers, “Achilles.”

Achilles' heart thumps in his chest. He presses a kiss to his temples, holding him tight.

Achilles might not know much, after all. He might not get things right the first time, or the second, or the third, but he knows this is a start. He knows he’ll be by Patroclus’ side, for as long as Patroclus needs him. They’ll grow, and heal, and live, together.

Time will do the rest.

Time, as it happens, doesn’t heal all. It helps, though. 

In time, the memories grow hazy and distant, the details and the images and the sounds go fuzzy. They still hurt, but the pain is dull, like an old bruise. 

Patroclus is doing better. He still gets that distant look in his eyes sometimes, or clams up when people mention the war, but he’s working through it. His lease ends in two months, and Achilles asked him to move in with him —there’s more than enough room in his flat— and Patroclus said he’d think about it. Achilles thinks he’ll probably do it. He’s always loved the old city, and the view of the Parthenon from Achilles’ balcony is pretty impressive, all things considered. 

Achilles hasn’t stopped seeing Chiron. He tells him he’s making progress, but it’s still a process and it needs patience. And Achilles is fine with that, he’s fine with working at things one at a time, even when he trips and falls sometimes. It’s all part of it. 

After Patroclus’ exams are over, they decide to go back to Phthia for the holidays. Peleus has given the fence a new coat of paint in anticipation of their arrival, and has pruned all the rose bushes in the garden, so it looks all prim and proper. His golden, leathery skin has grown a few more wrinkles around the eyes than Achilles remembers since the last time he saw him, but his smile is as bright as ever. They all have dinner and drink from the wine he’s made himself with the grapes from their own grapevine, and he beams when they both tell him it’s great. 

Later, when Patroclus goes upstairs to take a shower, Achilles sits him down and tells him all about it. About Patroclus, about them, that they’re planning to move in together if everything goes well. That Achilles loves him. That he’s always loved him.

Peleus isn’t as surprised as Achilles thought he would be, but he listens attentively while Achilles speaks. When he’s done, Peleus draws him in for a tight hug, and Achilles can smell the resin on his clothes, the sweet tang of stum, the smokey scent of those cigars he still likes to smoke occasionally.

“I’m happy for you both, my boy,” he says, and when he draws back Achilles thinks he can see his jade green eyes gleaming.

Damn, the old man is getting sentimental. 

They take the car afterwards, drive down to the beach, the same one they used to go to as children. There is a soft breeze blowing, combing through Patroclus’ curls, bringing them before his eyes. He laughs when Achilles does cartwheels in the sand and almost falls on his face because, frankly, he’s a little too old to be doing them now. Achilles asks to race him to the end of the beach, and he laughs even more.

“Not even in your dreams, Pelides,” he says, tears of laughter in his eyes. “You’re not fooling me into losing to you again.”

He relents in the end, and Achilles lets him win, just this once. 

The sun is dipping slowly towards the west. The beach is empty, only a couple seagulls are gliding along the evening breeze. They stand at the shore, where the waves break, sand and sea under their toes. Patroclus’ back is warm against Achilles’ chest, his lungs expanding and contracting gently beneath his arms. 

“I missed this,” Patroclus says quietly. In the soft sigh he lets out, Achilles can hear the words he does not: I thought I’d never see this again. 

“So did I.” He holds him tightly, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “We’ll come here again. And again. We’ll go to other places, too. Anywhere we like.”

Patroclus smiles. He turns his head to look at him, the light of the setting sun painting the side of his face golden and warm. Achilles leans closer, until their noses are touching, and whispers the words he never thought he would say again.

“We have our whole lives ahead of us.”