THE TOUCH does it’s job. his hands slide from patroclus’ hips, upward, over his sides, up to the firm ribcage, just touching him. every part of him aches for this, even whilst he’s here, it’s bittersweet, a victory, a death. he doesn’t doubt that this moment, it’s borne from all that he’s wanted, all that he’s EXPECTED. the bombardment of dark feelings, those he doesn’t indulge in often, the guilt, the fear, the loss, they’ll fade with Patroclus back.
but for now, they remain a tide, hungry, unthinking, wasting the shore slowly.
he smiles ; he knows it’s not his fault - patroclus’ death was borne on the hands as FATE just as his own was, but he could never forgive anyone for it. even himself. it matters less now, now that patroclus is here, breathing, smiling.
❛ maybe you’ll listen to me better this time around, then. ❜ it’s mostly a joke, he knows Patroclus is incapable of indulging him in this; and he smiles, leaning in to kiss him again, still hungry, unable to ice anything, he’s a fire and a car crash. but the kiss warms him, he’s smiling when he pulls away, letting go of Patroclus and stepping back, eyes on him still, tracking him in his movements like prey ready to meet his spear.
❛ you’ve got two floors of ‘ice’ – better hurry though.
I’ve got a lot more to thaw you with, Patroclus. ❜
It would be foolish, Patroclus, to expect Achilles to settle, and yet some part of you always has expected it, a little.
He hasn’t dwelled on his death much, and refuses to now. No matter how much Achilles wants to rehash it, he doesn’t think he’ll remember anything more than the downwards thrust of Hector’s spear, and moreover, he doesn’t care to. Briefly, he thinks about the tattoo he’d planned to get where the blow had pierced him — cypress flowers blooming from the wound — and wonders if it’s still a good idea. He decides that it probably isn’t, but that he probably doesn’t care. Chances are, he’s not going to get any better at listening to Achilles anytime soon, and frankly, it has usually served him well. With the exception of the dire warnings of his own death.
“You know me, Achilles. How likely do you think that is?”
He pulls back from the kiss and turns towards the stairway again, once more resisting the urge to laugh. He doesn’t think he’s had to suppress so much mirth so often for a long time. If he dials Achilles down a notch, Achilles generally dials him up one.
Since it’s just two floors and he doesn’t want to give Achilles another ready handle to hold them up at the top, he doesn’t take his hand back, but he does cast a glance over his shoulder and raise his eyebrows.
“I’m not sure you get the point of icing something. Thawing is usually the opposite of what you want.”
