a thousand times achilles could cause his death, and a thousand times it would be forgiven, and every time, patroclus would mean it just as much. without pleading or tears, no matter how emotional the request, patroclus will never hold within him the ability to truly refuse his lover. eyes will never burn with lasting disdain and hands will never tense at the sound of his voice. his name, thought so desperately in the moment of patroclus’ death, will never taste bitter upon his tongue and will never sour his heart. and he fears only that achilles does not know this.
restraint begins to feel like cruelty ; the distance of a hand resting with familiarity on his chest is stunning, and when his own tears threaten to spill down cold cheeks ( if achilles cries, then so shall patroclus ) he cannot do it. he cannot stand and demand reconciliation —- not while the other’s guilt makes his own stomach feel hollow, not when affection stolen by death becomes as heavy as words unsaid. he will never be that cold ; he will always love achilles too much for it.
“ i forgive you. ” breath is shallow in his chest, and when the hand that had brought achilles’ to his chest releases, it is so he anchor his palm against the back of the other’s neck —- to secure him, and to let fingers tangle in his hair, and to feel close to him again. death offers the unity that life had denied ; for the first time, patroclus feels certain that the man before him will not be pulled away by violent circumstance. they have lost everything —- he will never allow them to lose one another. ( not again. )
“ i forgive you. ” when he repeats it, floodgates open and lips are drawn together, and between the kisses that he has so missed, mumbled words come through. “ it’s not your fault, ” he says against achilles’ cheek, and “ i chose to fight, i wanted to, ” against the curve of his jaw. his lips, though —- to these patroclus returns time and time again, in rapture and in relief and in desperation, as though with kisses he will irrefutably prove every earnest word.
‘I forgive you.’ The words are as releasing & soothing as cold water on a hot summer day, as a balm over a wound, as a kiss on a furrowed brow. Achilles’ face is still streaked with tears –––– dimly he thinks of how this is becoming far too common an affair for him –––– but he sighs, leans forward & arches into Patroclus’ warm touch. His chest aches, his bones are weary, & his eyes heavy.
Forgiveness. He’s asked for it, but does he deserve it? Perhaps an argument for another day. For right now, there’s only Patroclus’ lips on his again, & gods does Achilles sigh again & surge forward, desperate fingers clutching whatever he can reach: fabric, skin, hair. Patroclus moves to his cheeks & jaw but every time he comes back to his lips, Achilles steals forward again, a man quenching his thirst in the desert. If this afterlife only consisted of kissing Patroclus he’ll happily take it.
His fingers are now tangled in the dark nest of his lover’s hair, clutching desperately as though Patroclus will turn to smoke in an instant & vanish. ❝ I let you down. You asked one thing of me & I couldn’t bring myself to do even that. I’ll never ... Patroclus ... ❞ He says his name slowly, savoring every syllable on his tongue, & kisses him again. ❝ Patroclus. I’ll never renounce you like that again. I swear it. ❞
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