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Sunset blazes over the beaches of Troy, gleaming off white-capped waves and splashing tents and huts and chitons bloody red. Streams of smoke curl into the evening sky, white and grey fading into bruise-purple clouds. About the camp, slaves and soldiers alike prepare for the coming darkness; cookfires are lit, vegetables cut, stews boiled, and wine poured.
Out front of Achilles’ hut, a young blond guard clasps the forearm of a taller, dark-haired warrior. They’re both Myrmidons, Achilles knows, though he can’t think of their names. They murmur softly to each other, words lost under the chatter of the women around the fire.
The taller man shakes his head. The shorter one nods, and glances back over his shoulder to the hut’s door.
Achilles cocks an eyebrow.
The short one turns hurriedly and slips off into the forest of rope, canvas, and mud-brick. His replacement snorts, and takes up his post at the door.
Rolling his eyes, Achilles returns to his lyre.
The guards are a formality, at best. Achilles is the strongest fighter on Earth, second only to the Gods, and he’s not about to pretend otherwise. But Patroclus, of course, insisted; in these last days, the poor man has been taut and tense as a lyre-string, barely sleeping, spending his free hours pacing about the camp like a caged wolf. Being guarded is worth the indignity, if only to let Patroclus’ shoulders relax half an inch.
Leaning back in his nest of cushions, Achilles hums along with the tune he plucks. It’s gentle and sad, some melody to a poem he doesn’t remember. Likely a ballad of lost love, or a long-fated tragedy. He’s already sung the songs and poems he knows fully. Just this morning he worked his way through all the sentimental dreck he wrote as a boy back on the mountain – lots of odes to steady hands and warm brown eyes, and sweeping tales of golden-haired girls plucked from peril by dark, handsome princes.
He plucks a few more notes. A few lines swim to the surface of his memory, and he sings softly, eyes slipping shut.
“ And to her love the fair maid ran, her hand outstretched
Though from a broken body, noble spirit fled —
She laid down at his side and begged cold Death himself
To spare his lips the warmth to kiss her once again… ”
The lyrics drift off after that. Idly, Achilles plucks the final note a few times. Sad, of course, but so are all the best things.
The most memorable songs , Chiron told him, once, are those that make the listener laugh, and those that make them cry . And when a frowning Patroclus brought up bawdy soldier-poems, Chiron only smiled in his usual, infuriatingly mysterious way. Do they make you laugh, my boy, or do they make you weep?
Achilles sang Patroclus his favourite, that night, rocking their hips together with the beat, and Patroclus whispered into his ear, they used to make me laugh. Now they make me want you.
With a pleased shiver, Achilles recalls the heated brush of lips against his cheek.
Blessedly, the light outside is waning. Patroclus must be finished his duties by now. He would return with time to spare, were this a normal day, but lately he’s worked himself to the bone, pushing well into the dinner hours; hopefully, he’ll have called it early this evening.
Achilles taps his fingertip against his lyre. “Diomede,” he calls, tipping his head to look out the door.
From her place about the fire, a slave woman rises. She eyes him, blank-faced. “Yes, my Lord?”
“How much longer until we dine?”
“An hour or more, my Lord.”
He waves her off, pouting, and sets the lyre aside to fall back into the cushions.
Another day spent in mind-numbing tedium, biding his time for his lover’s return. More wasted hours, more wasted men, more wasted blood, all waiting for Agamemnon to pull his head out of his thieving, selfish ass.
He groans, and rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes.
Outside, the new guard gives a hearty “hail, sir” and a few of the women about the fire call respectful greetings. Then, a warm, steady voice, as familiar as his own, cuts through the noise. Achilles peers out.
“Thank you,” says Patroclus, solid and dark and beautiful, nodding to the girls. He clasps the guard’s forearm. “Good to see you on watch.”
“Aye, sir,” the guard says. “Rather here than the Wall, that’s for certain.”
Patroclus’ jaw tightens. “If anyone makes a move toward any of our camp, do what you must, but be sure to call for me.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Good man.” Patroclus knocks their foreheads together companionably, apparently having forgotten he isn’t a common soldier.
Achilles quickly shuffles about, draping his chlamys enticingly. “Patroclus,” he calls, coy and teasing. “Where on Earth have you been?”
With a heavy sigh, Patroclus turns from his soldier friend ducks into the hut. He leaves the door open, to let in the air, but lets down the heavy privacy curtain. Some light filters through, but they cannot be seen.
They are finally alone.
Achilles rises from his nest, sure to sway his hips, and prowls over to Patroclus. “I thought you might miss our evening meal once again.”
“The men needed my assistance,” Patroclus says, unclasping his cloak. He lifts it off, baring his wide, well-muscled shoulders. He is left in practice leathers and a short chiton, tied at the waist with a simple leather belt and hung with the scabbards for his sword and knife. “Without your guidance, they tend to lose focus.”
Achilles slinks up behind Patroclus, nuzzling into the back of his neck. “Come, now, I’m sure it’s not so bad as all that – Ptolemaios is perfectly capable of keeping them on task, is he not?”
“He is a worthy lieutenant, and skilled, but you know as well as I do how little that matters.”
Making a face, Achilles slides his arms around Patroclus’ waist, stroking the hardened leather of his chestpiece. “Should I call Diomede and Iphis? It feels like you could use some relaxation. Take your mind off things.”
A pair of warm, solid hands catch Achilles’ wrists. “I must speak to you alone.”
“Ooh. I like the sound of that,” Achilles purrs, and he pushes his hips forward a little, into the soft muscles of his handsome warrior lover, his own exiled prince.
Abruptly, Patroclus shrugs him off.
Achilles pulls back, making a face. “You haven’t even greeted me, you know. It’s not a difficult thing, to greet one’s lover. I could do it for you. Good evening, Achilles. I’m glad to see you, Achilles. I’ve been thinking of your ravishing body all day, Achilles —”
“Enough,” Patroclus snaps. Sharply, he unlaces his cuirass, tugging it off.
If Achilles’ brows could climb any higher, they might leap off his face entirely. “What is wrong with you tonight? Are you possessed by some spirit of coldness? Should I have a strongly-worded chat with your lieutenants for pushing you too hard?”
Patroclus drops onto a low bench by the fire, and pries off his greaves with a low, exhausted sigh. “I’ve spoken to the others. Agamemnon is hedging, but Odysseus says they’re coming tonight with an embassy. They mean to ply you with gifts, that you might go back to the fight.”
“What gift is greater than my honor?” Achilles scoffs.
Patroclus resolutely does not look up at Achilles. He grips at his scabbard, pale-knuckled, jaw tight. “Briseis.”
Briseis.
Right.
“They intend to return her?” Achilles says, quietly.
Patroclus nods.
“And you would counsel me to… what?”
“Welcome them,” Patroclus says, voice is low and rough. “Take their gifts with an open heart. See her home, properly, with us.”
Achilles’ eyes narrow. Carefully, he sits, planting himself on the opposite bench. “Patroclus,” he starts.
“No.” Patroclus grabs up his shed armor and sets to maintenance, checking the leather and the laces. He picks at one bracer, spear-callouses scratching against fine plaits. “You must accept,” he says, flat and solid.
“I must nothing,” Achilles says, and he eyes Patroclus closely. Patroclus is moving stiffly – a bruised rib, maybe, or some other injury. “What’s gotten into you?”
Patroclus looks up from under his brows, and the embers reflect off his wide, dark lashes. “Have you even been outside?” he says.
“I have been playing my lyre.”
“Playing.” Patroclus glares at a knotted lace, then picks at it with his fingernails. His brows draw together, and the deep creases around his mouth pull deeper. “Of course. What else.”
Rolling his eyes, Achilles heads to the back of the hut, where their belongings are stored. He fetches down a ewer of oil and a cloth. “You know exactly how frustrating it is when you dance around the point, love. If you have something to say, then say it plain.”
“I shouldn’t have to say a damned thing. I’m not their leader. You are.”
“ I am nothing but a songbird until Agamemnon restores my honor,” Achilles says, and, feeling petty, sets the supplies down just out of Patroclus’ reach. He snatches up his plectrum, testing the blade of it with his thumb. “How am I to lead men without the respect I am owed?”
With a strangled noise, Patroclus sets down his armour and drops his face into his hands. “Would you take this seriously? For a moment?”
Brow cocked, Achilles flops back down onto the bench. “Oh, certainly. Tell me your truths, O Oracle.”
That earns him another poisonous glare. “Our men aren’t safe,” Patroclus grinds out. “If you showed some sort of contrition, maybe public opinion would sway to your side, but the attacks are getting worse, and so many have died—”
“ Contrition? ”
“Gods above,” Patroclus sighs, but Achilles’ lip is already curled into a sneer.
“Do you ask me to simper before him? Bow and scrape and beg like some scorned wife? When Agamemnon spat in my face!” Heart pounding, Achilles leans forward onto his knees. “To take what is mine—”
“Stop putting words in my mouth,” Patroclus snaps. “I said nothing of the sort. I don’t care about you and Agamemnon. Not anymore.”
Achilles gapes. “You don’t care? ”
“No! I don’t!” Patroclus tosses his cuirass across the tent. “Every day the Trojans advance, and every day we lose more good Greek men, led like pigs to slaughter!”
“We lost good Greek men to Apollo’s plague,” hisses Achilles. His hand curls around the sharp edge of his plectrum. “And Agamemnon—”
“I don’t give two shits about Agamemnon ,” snarls Patroclus. “May Zeus himself cast him down to Tartarus to be fed upon by rats! The plague is over . Tonight, they will bring you ransom for their own lives, and you must accept it!”
His skin, flushed even darker in his passion, shines richly in the firelight, and his sharp, intent eyes gleam. Warm, broad lips part over bright teeth, and his breath comes quickly, eager and furious and aroused.
Oh, how Achilles wants to kiss him.
“I must do nothing of the sort,” he says, instead, and waves a hand dismissively. It’s the one move guaranteed to drive Patroclus absolutely mad, always has, even as children; and yes, there it is. The flare of frustration, of rejection, of righteous fury! It lights Patroclus’ dark eyes like a spark in kindling. A hot, acidic flame rises in Achilles’ guts, smouldering and bittersweet.
Patroclus always has been terribly handsome when he’s angry, and they haven’t had a good fight in so long …
“Do I mean nothing to you?” Patroclus says, every word clipped.
Achilles laughs. Lets himself sound musical, vapid, almost. “What could you be implying by that, my darling?”
“Answer the question. I am done playing games.”
“Are you?” Achilles rises on his knees, stretching out his arms, letting his chlamys drape teasingly across his thighs. It bares a broad stripe of flesh from his arm down, all golden-tanned skin and marble-perfect muscles. He makes a point of flexing his belly, where Patroclus most likes to suck deep purple bruise-marks, ripe as berries. They don’t last long, like most undivine things, but the memory of them aches deliciously.
Patroclus’ eyes trace the edge of Achilles’ ribs all the way to Achilles’ hips before he tears his gaze away, jaw clenched. “Do you have so little respect for me that you will not even listen to this one favour I beg?”
“I’m listening,” Achilles sing-songs, and he sinks back down to sit on his heels. “I always listen to you.” His prick lays plump between his thighs, goaded on by the stroke of linen as his chlamys slides back into place; it’s not obvious in the folds of the fabric, but it will be, soon. He thinks, giddily, of when Patroclus will notice it, and the flare of heat and hunger that will cross his lovely face.
Patroclus growls, thunderous. It sends a delightful shudder up Achilles’ spine. “Then listen to me when I tell you this. If you do not receive the others well, this night, we will lose half our men before the week is out. The Myrmidons will be no more.”
Achilles smirks. “Then take them out of the fight. There is no need for senseless slaughter.”
“Senseless!” Patroclus barks. “ Senseless! The healers run out of wood for pyres, children lose their fathers, all for want of you , and you call this senseless?” His ribs heave, flames in his eyes. He is almost ready. One more blow, one more breath, and the fire will catch.
“I ask Agamemnon for nothing but my property and my honor,” Achilles says, cool and even. “Should he deign to return them, I shall, perhaps, consider returning to the front lines.”
In the space of a moment, Patroclus lunges.
With all the speed of his godly blood, Achilles lurches sideways, turning his dodge into a neat spin that brings him up easily to his feet. He skips over his discarded lyre. His skin hums. His heart pounds. He’s grinning.
Patroclus snarls, a wolf, a lion, and one hand darts out to catch Achilles by the wrist; Achilles lets it close, lets the warm, rough callouses of his lover’s grip clench around him and pull him in a half-step. Then he breaks the hold, snapping backwards.
Patroclus gives chase. His muscled arm lashes forward, snags Achilles’ chlamys, and, laughing, Achilles lets it fall, baring himself entire; his cock stands, hot and proud and wanting, between his legs.
Patroclus barely spares a glance before he leaps again, the skirt of his chiton slipping up to expose the tops of his strong thighs. Achilles flushes at the sight, dancing back, aiming for their bed. He feints to one side, as if he’s going to dodge around Patroclus’ grasping hand, but Patroclus knows him too well – in a blink, he throws Achilles down, knocking him into the furs of their cot.
Achilles sinks gracefully into the softness of their bed, the heavy smell of both of them twined together, the sensual stroke of fur and linen on the heat of his skin, and oh, Patroclus follows, falling atop him with all his weight, a thick, hot torso bearing Achilles down, crushing him perfectly.
Heavy, broad hands catch Achilles’ face, wrapped around his jaw. “You,” Patroclus growls, and Achilles laughs, tipping his head back to bare his throat. The hands squeeze, hard, a brief and ecstatic reminder of his lover’s strength.
“Me,” Achilles whispers, grinning helplessly, and he slings his legs up and around Patroclus’ waist, rolling his hips up against that lovely chiton.
With a delightful growl, Patroclus yanks at Achilles’ head, pulling them together. Achilles’ eyes flutter closed. Patroclus’ breath is hot on his cheeks, and his beard tickles Achilles’ bare chin. Their lips brush. “Achilles,” Patroclus says, voice deep and cracked and tight, “if I fuck you, will you see the embassy?”
“If you fuck me well enough,” Achilles gasps, “I’ll do anything you like,” and he slams their mouths together.
Their kiss scorches, blooms, ignites . Patroclus’ lips, soft and strong, press and part and push, filling Achilles up until he boils over, clinging to Patroclus’ shoulders and waist and mouth and spirit; Achilles returns the passion tenfold, licking the seam of their lips, tracing teeth and tongue and revelling in the slick, soft taste of his most precious thing.
Hands unsteady, Achilles fumbles with Patroclus’ belt, knocking aside his scabbards. Patroclus groans into his mouth, and a bolt of electric pleasure rushes down Achilles’ spine. He breaks from the kiss, tossing his head back, and Patroclus takes the invitation, mouthing down his cheek and to the thin skin of his throat.
“Gods,” Achilles moans, hips rocking up.
Patroclus laughs, low and sweet, licking a trail up Achilles’ jugular. He reaches down and carefully unties his belt, running the back of his knuckles over Achilles’ aching-hard prick. “How do you want me?” he says, nuzzling the hinge of Achilles’ jaw. “Shall I take your thighs?”
“No,” Achilles whines, scrambling to shove the chiton up over Patroclus’ arms.
“Your mouth?”
“ No .”
Patroclus pulls away, tossing the chiton aside, and Achilles swallows a tremulous groan to see the bulk of his lovely chest bared like this, to follow the tight black curls of his body hair down to the proud stiffness of him, ruddy and twitching. “Then what do you want, my love?”
“Fuck me. Fuck me like a woman,” Achilles bursts out, heat rising in his cheeks. “I want you to take me – been thinking of it all day, thinking of – ah – you inside me, come on. ”
With an overwhelmed sort of groan, Patroclus leans back down to kiss him, and in a bare moment Patroclus has his hand shoved between them, slipping past Achilles’ sack to rub a finger up against his hole.
Patroclus grunts, hot and heavy and pleased. “You’re wet.”
“What do you think I was doing here, all alone, without you?” Achilles breathes.
“Sitting in here, playing with yourself all day, getting slick for me – you wanton thing.” Patroclus broad hand clutches at the muscle of Achilles’ bottom, and Achilles groans happily, wriggling into his hold. “I could slide right in.”
“Yes,” Achilles groans, “you should, please, please fuck me, I need it.”
Patroclus shudders, and with a rough, strangled growl, he shifts to rub the head of his prick up against Achilles’ hole. It’s soft and hot and perfect, the drag of his velvet-soft skin, and Achilles takes a steadying breath, bearing down –
Oh , there it is, Patroclus’ hardness shoving into him, filling him up, stretching him wide. Achilles loses his words, letting out a low, hitching cry and shivering all over. His hands pat weakly at Patroclus’ shoulders: do it .
A rough slide out. A hard push in.
Again.
Again.
Faster –
Time slips from Achilles’ fingers like sand. He gasps, and moans, and writhes, pulling himself up against Patroclus’ hips, pleading wordlessly for something harder, deeper, more intense, though he knows if he got it he would shake apart. His eyes roll back. He kisses Patroclus’ face, his neck, his beard, bites at the palm of his broad, warm hand, tugs at his hair.
His climax blooms within him, dye in a bowl of clear water, all-consuming, rolling through his body like slow, ecstatic lightning. His prick jerks, pressed between their bellies, spend leaking onto their skin in pulses, like it’s being fucked out of him with every thrust of Patroclus’ hips.
“Gods, I’m, oh ,” Achilles cries, and Patroclus stills; his hardness twitches, and Achilles can feel him pulsing, spending inside him, and another shiver wracks Achilles from head to toe. He clings to Patroclus’ shoulders. His legs fall open. He presses giddy kisses to Patroclus’ face, wherever he can reach.
Patroclus sighs. “You,” he says, a curse and a blessing. He pulls out, carefully, and Achilles lets out a shaky breath at the slick, hollow feeling that follows.
They lay together in silence. The sun has set, by now, and firelight creeps through the curtain; the life of the camp moves on.
“Will you see the embassy?” Patroclus says.
Achilles groans. “You couldn’t give me even a minute to bask, could you?”
“Achilles.”
“Fine, yes, I’ll see them.” Achilles shakes his head, and rolls over to plaster himself against Patroclus’ side. “You’d think that was all you cared about. The Greeks, Agamemnon, that slave woman…”
Patroclus is stiff and still. He pulls away. Sits up. Fusses with his hair. “I should check with the girls about dinner, if we’re having company. They’ll expect a fine meal.”
“Patroclus,” Achilles tries, but Patroclus is standing up, reaching for his discarded chiton, and pulling it on. Something dark and awful knots in Achilles’ chest. “I love you.”
Patroclus pauses. He doesn’t look back. “I love you, too.”
Then he passes through the dark curtain, and he’s gone.