Achilles x Patroclus

I really love this two idiots and I've been wanting to write a book about their backstory and how they fall in love for a while now, trying to stick more to the "canon" (I love Madeline Miller's TSOA, but girl, that shit is so ooc). 

I've been researching stuff about Achilles' backstory outside of what the Illiad says, including what other authors from the time wrote about him (for example that his birth name was Ligyron, and Achilles was a name he took later on).

The whole "erastes" and "eromenos" thing is still a small internal debate for me, but I'll probably just made them have an age gap and Achilles be a young adult instead of an adolescent when they start dating.

Anyway, here it is a passage (unfinished, sadly) of one of the interactions between Achilles and Patroclus during the Troyan war. Thanks for reading and if you notice any mistakes please let me know!! 🙏💋

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(1624 words)

Achilles had been struck during battle, and Patroclus had made sure he didn't leave unscolded, even as he nurtured the wound in the others' shoulder like a lover nurturing the battle wounds of her soldier husband. 

 "Such a stupid man," he had chastised him, as he carefully moved the blonde locks of hair out of the way and dressed the wound. "What were you even thinking, not paying attention to your surroundings like that? The spear barely missed your neck, you airheaded fool." His long lashes spanned over his cheeks, his lips frowned in concentration and disapproval. Achilles had to look the other way, to the patterns of the rugs, to not get lost in those features he so often dreamed of. 

Because it was true that Achilles had been struck because of his stupidity. His mind had been somewhere else, something that should never happen in the middle of battle, where the most insignificant mistake could cost someone's life, or your own. 

But how could he not dream, how could his mind not wander, when the paradise itself was within arm's reach and so, so far away at the same time? How could he focus on slaying his enemies, and how could he revel in the bloodshed, when Patroclus was just waiting for him in their tent, or a few steps away in the battlefield, or at the bottom of a hill, shouting in victory as Achilles slayed the enemies that had attacked the myrmidons from the heights? He was so warm and inviting, laying on their bed and eager to embrace him, or so handsome claded in armour and dripping sweat and someone else's blood. 

And it is true, he had been thinking of the man in the midst of battle. He had been thinking of that face he had admired that dawn, until he couldn't stall more and he had had to leave their bed and armour himself. Of those eyes that inspected his naked form from between the bedding; of the tired, rough voice that had bid him farewell. Of the arms that had held him during the night, that had tightened around his waist when they first heard the call to battle. "Don't go yet," Patroclus had growled, his eyes still closed and his nose burrowing into the back of the blond's neck, "I want to keep you for myself a little longer."

But the prince of Phthia could not be kept, for Achiles does what Achiles wants, and his hands itch for a battle that's not his own and the fame he has been destined to. So he fought against the Trojan with a newfound vigor and disdain, for they were keeping him away from philtatos with their unfruitful ambush to the myrmidons. And in the midst of the chaos and yelling, he had stared at the puddle of blood forming under the body of a fallen foe, and his mind had wandered to the red of philtatos mouth. The mouth that had kissed his temple, cheek, ear, jaw, neck, and it kept descending, bellow... Just the night before, that mouth had kissed him like a payer to an unknown God, had worshiped every inch of his body like Achilles himself was holy. And he didn't doubt that Patroclus believed that. Once too many times had the older man refered to the valley between his legs as sacred  land, and none of them had Achilles had the strenght to muster a protest. It was, at the end of the day, the skin of a demigod.

So forgive him, Ares, God of War, Lord of battle, but you must understand more than anyone else. Have you never seen your judgement clouded by the image of your most beloved Aphrodite? Have you never yearned for the embrace of your lover, such a need that overpowered any emotion and clouded your senses, even when your very own life is at stake? And if that is true, if even the very master of war is captive of this bewitchment, how could Achilles, who is half simple man, resist the call of the sirens? How could he not yearn for that embrace, for those whispered words in the break of dawn or the peak of the night; how could he not yearn at every moment for that strong body on top of him, swallowing him whole, with love and passion and so much more he does not dare to name?

He turned his head back around, catching a glimpse of the red running down his arm, his eyes zeroing in the man next to him. He stretched his neck towards him, much to philtatos's surprise, sticking his nose against one of those tanned cheekbones. 

"I cannot tell you," the prince murmured, his eyes closed and his face warming up where their skins touched. He smiled, silent and mischievous as ever, "you would not like it."

Patroclus ran his fingers along the blond strands, gripping them near the roots and pulling on them, turning Achilles's face away so he could effectively deliver his disapproving glare. "Ligyron, will you tell me what that vague statement, that flimsy excuse, is supposed to mean?" he inquired, his eyebrow tilting upwards as it always did when Achilles gave him a hard time. The man was no stranger to Achilles' stunts, as the prince often tried to get his way and obtain whatever he desired, even while inconveniencing others. Patroclus had grown used to guessing twice whenever that exasperating smile adorned the prince's face.

"Do not call me Ligyron." Achilles protested, but the smile didn't flee his features. He wrapped his arms around the other's neck, bringing them both down to fall over the blankets and pillows. 

"And why shouldn't I? That is precisely what you are. A whining child, one who cries for his mother yet refuses to accept the fruit that would calm your temper," philtatos teased him, and how much did Achilles hate that.

"I am in no way a whining child," Achilles protested, as if that wasn't proof enough of his usual childishness, "I am Achilles, Prince of Phthia, Aristos Achaion, swift-footed warrior and son of the nymph Thetis. Not a crying infant in need of his mother." His chest swelled with pride against the other man's, the blonde locks falling to frame his face and getting in the other's eyes. 

Patroclus didn't fall for the display of arrogance, simply gathering the beautiful hair in his hands, and cupping the back of the other's skull to tuck his head under his chin. "A whining child, I tell you." That earned a huff of frustration from the best of the Greeks, the air tickling Patroclus' naked chest. He smiled, his hands finding once again their path to those soft locks he loved to pet. His lips found their way to a light eyebrow, and they could not miss the opportunity to leave a stray kiss in the freckled skin. "I am immensely thankful for the honour of making  your blood boil."

The prince huffed again, making his disagreement clear in the way the tried to squirm away from philtatos. But once again, as it always happened with him and him only, there was no real resistance, and Achilles let himself be pulled back down by those strong arms, his pride quiet whenever he laid on top of that chest. A chest that currently shaked with laughter, much to Achilles' dismay. "Cease your laughter, you buffoon. It is a graceful prince who is the cause of your amusement." 

"The most graceful of them all," the other answered, in the same manner of someone placating a small child's tantrum. Achilles remained quiet, as to not further aggravate his predicament, and a comfortable silence settled inside the tent. They could still faintly hear the sounds of other men talking outside, taking care of those wounded in the earlier encounter with the Trojans and probably working on that day's dinner.

Patroclus ran his fingers over the dressing on his shoulder, down his arm and up his back; and Achilles couldn't help but be briefly reminded of his father, of the gentle hands that took care of him when he was barely growing out of his infant years; before he was sent to Mount Pelion. He burrowed his face in the middle of philtatos's chest, reveling in the blissfulness of being held in those arms, whose image wouldn't flee his mind. "How does your shoulder feel?" Patroclus inquired in a hushed voice, not wanting to break the peaceful atmosphere.

"I don't feel any pain," he answered, in an equially quiet murmur, "I have the best healer among the Greeks." He could feel Patroclus chest shift underneath him.

"Don't be idiotic. Everything I know you taugh me; and you aren't precisely the best healer among the Greeks."

"How dare you!" This time it was far less difficult to manage to sound outraged. "I was taught the art of tending wounds wisest and most just of all the centaurs, the great Chiron. Are you implying he does not posses superior knowledge about how to care for wounds? Or that perhaps you know better than the teacher of many famous warriors, suchs as Heracles, or myself?"

"I'm not saying Chiron doesn't have the knowledge, I'm saying you do not posses the capacity to learn." Patroclus teased him again; but this time it was too much for the great Achilles' pride, and so he fled the arms that held him, and made his way outside despite the calls of his name that followed him.

He saw Agamemnon in the distance, the insufferable king sending an arrogant, mocking smile towards him. Achilles felt his blood heat just by the sight of the king. Did Agamemnon truly think he could laugh at Achilles's failures when his own were far greater?