#*goswrites

[orthogonals]

只有你| only you

Rating: T Fandom: 二哈和他的白猫师尊 - 肉包不吃肉 | The Husky and His White Cat Shizun - Meatbun Doesn't Eat Meat   Word Count: 1454 Pairing: Chu Wanning/ Mo Ran| Taxian-jun Summary:  Chu Wanning, let This Venerable One hold you for a bit.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “This Venerable One is cold.” “Don’t you have an empress?” “She doesn’t smell as good as you.” Mo Ran sidled even closer to Chu Wanning, dropping Chu Wanning’s hand to run his fingers through Chu Wanning’s hair, still damp and a bit textured. --- OR: Inspired by one of Meatbun's mini-theatres. Sometimes, Taxian-jun just wants a hug to chase away the cold.  [read on ao3]

On the third year of his reign, Taxian-jun found himself wandering aimlessly about in his own palace. The shuffling of his boots against the wooden floor rang eerily in the still air, quiet in a way that signaled the rapid approach of untenable hours.

Before Mo Ran had even realized the well-worn path trodden by his feet, he looked up to find the familiar whorls and crevices of the door to where Chu Wanning was being kept.

Winter had sunk its claws into the land, settling in like a lioness curling around her cubs. A thick blanket of snow decorated the sprawling courtyards and pointed rafters of Sisheng peak, giving Wushan Palace a particularly bleak and dismal appearance.

As the night approached, flurries of snow swept about to the howling of the wind. Some flakes caught onto the windows and melted, dampening the thin sheet of protective paper stretched over the wooden frames. Outside, the sky deepened from a vague sort of darkness to an impenetrable black.

Taxian-jun hesitated, but only for a moment. He didn’t know what coming to seek his Shizun at such a devilish hour meant, but he didn’t put much thought into his own motivations or to Chu Wanning’s possible interpretation of them. After all, Chu Wanning couldn’t very well refuse a visit from his captor, and Taxian-jun couldn’t care less about Chu Wanning’s regard. At least, that was what he consoled himself with.

Taxian-jun raised his hand to knock, but quickly retracted the gesture. The door flew open with a rough bang as he swept into the room unannounced.

Chu Wanning sat on a plain mattress, a threadbare sheet thrown causally around his shoulders for warmth. He seemed to be preparing for bed, currently brushing out the tangles in his curtain of damp hair. If he startled at Mo Ran’s sudden entrance, his countenance gave little clue— the hand methodically running a comb through his dark strands did not break pace.

Until a large hand caught his wrist, halting the careful movement.

Mo Ran’s grip was firm but not punishing. Chu Wanning subtly flexed the tendons of his wrist, blue and purple veins shifting minutely beneath the translucent paleness of his skin.  Still, he knew that any sort of struggle would ultimately be fruitless. Instead, with the remainder of his defiance, Chu Wanning sat straight, silent, and unyielding, gaze directed somewhere past Mo Ran’s shoulder.

Taxian-jun had long accustomed to the implacable disobedience of his Shizun. And he, too, had begun to develop a fairly effective program for gradually bending Chu Wanning’s will, like heating an iron rod until it drooped over the fire.

“Shizunnn~” Taxian-jun called, his voice dripping in honey, pungent and cloying. His thumb brushed against the delicate skin of Chu Wanning’s inner wrist, feather-light, and Taxian-jun hid a smirk at how Chu Wanning’s heartbeat ratcheted upwards at the touch.

“Get out.” Chu Wanning responded promptly, still refusing to meet Mo Ran’s eyes.

“What a cold reception,” Taxian-jun tsk’d, “This disciple is heartbroken.”

“What do you want?” Chu Wanning refused to acknowledge Mo Ran’s barbed wheedling, instead cutting to straight the point, his voice the glinting edge of a drawn sword.

At this, Taxian-jun actually paused. What did he want? To be honest, he wasn’t quite so sure himself. On nights like this, when his mind felt dim and his thoughts garbled, his sense of self nebulous and shrouded, it seemed that only Chu Wanning had the power to pull him out of the miasma, bring him back to reality. Not that he would admit it in such detail, though, even to himself.

So, Taxian-jun settled on a simple and guileless response.

“Chu Wanning, let This Venerable One hold you for a bit.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “This Venerable One is cold.”

“Don’t you have an empress?”

“She doesn’t smell nearly as good as you.”

Mo Ran sidled even closer to Chu Wanning, dropping Chu Wanning’s hand to run his fingers through Chu Wanning’s hair, still damp and a bit textured.

Chu Wanning winced as Mo Ran’s fingers picked through the tangles he had yet to brush out. It had been a while since he left the tepid waters of his bath, and his wet hair had cooled, freezing his scalp and the tips of his ears. Mo Ran’s broad palms brought some heat back to his head; he couldn’t help but tremble into the warmth.

Mo Ran smiled to himself. His Shizun had always been especially susceptible to the cold. They both knew Mo Ran was actually giving Chu Wanning some face— the one who really needed relief from the chill, after all, was his Shizun.

Of course, Mo Ran could’ve also just swept Chu Wanning into his embrace, unheeding of protest, then swallowed Chu Wanning’s curses roughly against his mouth, his tongue diving in to break up those gnashing teeth...

Mo Ran was half-hard at the thought, but he kept a tight grip on the reins of his self-control. Sometimes, it felt more satisfying to coax than to take by force, a gratification that could only come from soothing someone so wild and untamed.

Taking Chu Wanning’s continued silence as assent, Taxian-jun closed the last bit of distance between them. He sat down at the empty space beside Chu Wanning and pulled Chu Wanning onto his lap, winding his arms around Chu Wanning’s narrow waist and resting his chin in the dip between his neck and shoulder.

Chu Wanning felt as if he had been enveloped by a furnace. Heat instantly rushed from his neck to the tips of his fingers, leaving numb trails tingling in its wake. He shook silently with the sudden warmth, relaxing into Mo Ran’s hold almost unconsciously.

They stayed like that for an indefinite moment, stretched out and suspended in time. Mo Ran absentmindedly rubbed circles against Chu Wanning’s stomach. With a spectacular amount of restraint, he refrained from sinking his teeth into the firm muscle of Chu Wanning’s shoulder, from marking up the tender skin at the hollow of Chu Wanning’s throat, instead contenting himself with blowing out puffs of warm breath and watching the answering flush of pink spread along his Shizun’s neck.

Mo Ran couldn’t deny that Chu Wanning, detestable as he was, still seemed the perfect size to fit against his body. They slotted together like complementary parts of a machine, snug and intimate. He peppered languid kisses on the stretch of back exposed by Chu Wanning’s collar, thinking to himself, Chu Wanning, I really hate you so much.

But Taxian-jun still grew a bit bored after a while, and a glint of mischief flashed within his eyes.

“Shizun,” he implored piteously, “pay attention to me...”

Chu Wanning angled his head slightly to peer at Mo Ran.

“What is it now?”

“This Venerable One wants Shizun to undo his hair,” Taxian-jun announced.

Taxian-jun's hair was still piled up in whatever intricate mess his servants had done for him today, the metal hairpiece secured tightly against his scalp. His request, routine and nightly as it was, came off unabashedly as a pretext for spending the rest of the right in Chu Wanning’s room, in his bed.

Normally, Chu Wanning’s reply would’ve come swiftly and without fail— a single “get out.” Yet perhaps due to the hazy warmth of Mo Ran’s hold, or perhaps due to the smudged dimness of the hour, suddenly Chu Wanning’s sight blurred: the man behind him no looked longer like Taxian-jun, the First Emperor of the Cultivation world, the fiend who had committed countless unforgivable atrocities, but instead appeared as Mo Ran, his artless, stumbling, innocent, charming disciple.

So Chu Wanning, uncharacteristically compliant, shifted off Mo Ran’s lap to sit with him face-to-face. He gently guided Mo Ran’s head down and began tugging at the pins in his hair with slender, practiced fingers.

If Taxian-jun felt any surprise at Chu Wanning’s willingness, he tamped it down, happy to simply enjoy this unfounded luck. Warm fingers stroked against his scalp, easing his hair from the tight braids, lifting away the metal hairpiece. The hands then combed through the length of his freed locks, knuckles brushing softly against his temples.

Taxian-jun leaned into Chu Wanning’s touch. He rested his forehead against Chu Wanning’s waist and let the faint fragrance of haitang crowd his senses. Chu Wanning stroked his head steadily, the pads of his fingers massaging lightly against his skull.

Like this, surrounded everywhere by Chu Wanning— his scent, his touch, his embrace— Taxian-jun dozed off, slumping into Chu Wanning’s patient hold, warm in the winter night. And before the last vestiges of his consciousness slipped away, Taxian-jun could’ve sworn he felt a kiss, feather light, pressed against the crown of his head.

[orthogonals]

in which sophie’s secretly quite fond of silver

Rating: G Fandom: Howl’s Moving Castle (Howl Series, Diana Wynne Jones) Word Count: 579 Summary:  Sophie awoke to a peculiar tickling on her nose. She reached out a hand and smacked blindly in front of her face, one bleary eye cracking open with effort. A mass of spun silver assaulted her senses, the strands plastering themselves on her mouth and edging their way up her nostrils. Blinking rapidly, Sophie tried to fend off the wisps with her eyelashes. Her fingers curled into a fist and gave the misshapen heap next to her a solid thump.

[read on a03]

Sophie awoke to a peculiar tickling on her nose. She reached out a hand and smacked blindly in front of her face, one bleary eye cracking open with effort. A mass of spun silver assaulted her senses, the strands plastering themselves on her mouth and edging their way up her nostrils. Blinking rapidly, Sophie tried to fend off the wisps with her eyelashes. Her fingers curled into a fist and gave the misshapen heap next to her a solid thump.

“Ow!” groaned the pile of sheets, and— much to Sophie’s relief— the nest of shining locks shifted off her face. A regal profile emerged attached to the wild hair, all cut cheekbones and long lashes. “Seems a bit too early for violence, dear, even for you.” Howl turned and caught Sophie with his green-gray eyes, sleep-worn and soft around the edges.

Sophie’s heart gave a little stutter, for which she promptly chastised herself with some exasperation.

“I swear, Howl, I must inhale half a head of your hair every night. You could cut me open and find yourself a wig.” Her brows drew low, but the smile playing at her lips belied her irritation.

Howl took this as an opportunity to sweeten Sophie up; her mood would inevitably worsen as the day cleared from pinky yellows to blue. He ran a hand through his unruly, though marvelously colored, tresses, then paused, hoping to strike a brilliant pose against the backlight of the window. The corners of Sophie’s mouth turned down frightfully, and Howl quickly tipped his head down, burying a grin along the edges of her collarbone.

“C’mon, Sophie,” his voice came muffled from Sophie’s chest, arms reaching up, octopus-like, to cradle her head. “You know I can’t tie my hair up when I sleep. It’ll dent.” He punctuated his point by placing several light kisses up the ridges of Sophie’s neck, finishing with a grand peck against her pursed lips. Sophie melted against him, giving a sigh that usually foreshadowed hastily locked doors and mushy declarations of devotion.

“I suppose I could always lop it off, then,” she said, shifting to make room for Howl as he settled his weight on top of her. He made a face that contorted his features into something not so carefully handsome, licking a stripe up her nose. To Sophie’s horror, she scrunched her eyes shut and giggled, Howl’s answering chuckles vibrating against her sternum. Oh, bother. She was truly in for him, wasn’t she?

“But don’t you think I’m pretty?” Howl added piteously, putting on a pout that rivaled Martha’s during the worst of her elementary-age tantrums. Howl was terribly dramatic and thrived off attention, so Sophie really shouldn’t indulge him the way she does. But still, the pastel hues of dawn had softened everything in their room, including Sophie, and she tilted up her head to catch him in another kiss. “The prettiest I’ve ever seen,” she said softly, and Howl's face broke open into a disbelieving beam. He let out a whoop, and Sophie's ribs gave a faint creak of protest as he swept her into a bone-crushing squeeze. Sophie personally thought that Howl had no business looking quite so elated.

It seemed that somehow, sometime, between pungent powders and green slime and cowardly acts of disservice, sighting up Howl’s wonderfully straight nose and blowing away dastardly silver hair had become an indispensable part of Sophie’s happiness. She supposed it simply came with the misfortune of being the eldest.

[orthogonals]

生不如死| torture worse than death

Rating: M Fandom: 二哈和他的白猫师尊 - 肉包不吃肉 | The Husky and His White Cat Shizun - Meatbun Doesn't Eat Meat Word Count: 1608 Pairing: Chu Wanning/Mo Ran | Taxian-Jun Summary: Chu Wanning lay sprawled haphazardly on the floor, strands of black hair fanning behind his head in a halo. Pale veins decorated the light pink of his closed eyelids, two haitang petals set against the paper white of his skin. His breaths, slow with unconsciousness, came softly through parted lips, the rise and fall of his chest almost imperceptible. --- OR: Set directly after MR's flashback in Ch. 89. What happened after 0.5 Mo Ran and Chu Wanning's first time?

[read on ao3]

Chu Wanning lay sprawled haphazardly on the floor, strands of black hair fanning behind his head in a halo. Pale veins decorated the light pink of his closed eyelids, two haitang petals set against the paper white of his skin. His breaths, slow with unconsciousness, came softly through parted lips, the rise and fall of his chest almost imperceptible.

Taxian-jun adjusted the last few ties of his robes and stood back to admire his work, gazing almost pensively at Chu Wanning’s prone figure. All of Chu Wanning’s clothing had long since been feverishly torn away, and garments cluttered the room sporadically, thrown atop furniture or heaped in piles on the floor. Some unfortunate articles lay tattered and useless, ripped apart in Taxian-jun’s cruel haste to access the intoxicating warmth of his Shizun’s body.

His eyes raked across the smooth canvas of skin offered by Chu Wanning, pausing at each bruise, each crimson mark interrupting the pale expanse of flesh. Chu Wanning had slipped into exhaustive slumber on his back, with his arms and legs splayed as if to present the evidence of his degradation. Dried bits of fluid, tinged pink with blood, had tracked streaks down Chu Wanning’s inner thighs, a watercolor of debauchment painted between his legs. Taxian-jun’s irises darkened, a vicious expression frightfully twisting his handsome features. Hunger, malice, and perverse satisfaction flickered across Taxian-jun’s face in turns.

Suddenly, as if struck by a memory or the onset of a nightmare, Chu Wanning’s long lashes trembled against his cheek, and a soft murmur escaped from his lips. His sharp brows scrunched, forming a wrinkle that creased his forehead. His face stayed like that momentarily, troubled even in sleep, before gradually smoothing out once more.

Unbidden, a sharp wave of pity rose within Taxian-jun. To see his Shizun, Yuheng of the Night Sky, the Beidou Immortal, reduced to this, nothing more than a whore writhing beneath the prowess of the First Emperor of the Cultivation World— Taxian-jun almost felt sympathetic. Of course, so thoroughly humiliating Chu Wanning had brought him a grim sense of sadistic pleasure, but his gratification still seemed to fall short somewhere, like an arrow that had missed bullseye by a few marks. This faint unease churned within him along with the pity, leaving Taxian-jun feeling strangely out of sorts, as if he were a lost traveler who had somehow stumbled his way into Wushan Palance, stumbled into standing over the naked body of his ruined Shizun.

Taxian-jun shook his head to dispel the filmy wisps of his thoughts. He had originally planned to call an attendant to drag Chu Wanning, naked and debased, away to some corner of the Palace. Physical conquest wasn’t enough to slake his animalistic thirst for vengeance; he wanted to irrevocably tarnish Chu Wanning, to incinerate his pristine, austere image into wisps of ash. Taxian-jun had even imagined Chu Wanning’s reaction upon awakening to four unfamiliar walls, picturing with a sort of vicious glee how his Shizun’s face would blanch white upon finding himself so unceremoniously carried away and dumped aside.

But now, just considering the idea of someone else having the privilege to lay eyes on Chu Wanning like this, so completely fucked out, ignited a possessive rage that burned like forest brush up his esophagus. Mine, he thought. Chu Wanning belongs to me.

Letting out a puff of a sigh, he stooped down to pick up Chu Wanning, maneuvering Chu Wanning’s head to rest on his shoulder. Chu Wanning’s lashes flickered; he seemed to make a grumble of protest, but he eventually burrowed closer into Taxian-jun’s chest, an unconscious effort to seek warmth, like a sunflower tilting to catch rays of light on its petals. His hair splayed down in rivulets and framed the elegant lines of his face. The strands reflected the dim candlelight in a dull luster, like shimmering black pearls.

Before he was even aware of the impulse, Taxian-jun dipped down to catch Chu Wanning’s petal-soft lips in a chaste kiss. The faint taste of dew permeated his mouth and melted like candy on his tongue.

A servant, shakily bowing, brought a tub of warm water and some linen towels to the room. Taxian-jun shot him a glare in dismissal and turned back to face the bed, scarlet-gold curtains drawn closed around the mattress. Steam licked upwards from the water and filled the room with a smoky, intangible haze.

The curtains swished open under Taxian-jun’s hand, revealing the figure of a man still sleeping, wrapped up in an animal pelt.

Taxian-jun extricated Chu Wanning from the covers, hoisting his pliant body into his embrace and bringing him to the tub. When the warm water submerged Chu Wanning’s listless limbs, his eyes blearily cracked open. He affixed a distant, cloudy gaze towards Taxian-jun, dazed and unaware.

“Mo Ran?” He asked, leaning against the wood of the tub.

“Go back to sleep.” Taxian-jun responded roughly. His voice rang hoarse and gravelly in the still air.

Perhaps Chu Wanning had truly suffered beyond his limit, or perhaps, in the realm between sleep and clarity, he had forgotten his current situation. For rather than his usual intransigence, Chu Wanning instead obediently closed his eyes and drifted back into unconsciousness.

Taxian-jun felt as if something blunt had cleaved a groove into his chest, heart raw with wound and spurting fresh blood. He reached out as if to touch Chu Wanning, to stroke his hair, but then abruptly retracted his arm and fisted his hand at his side.

Taxian-jun genuinely never knew how to regard this Shizun of his. The gulf that bridged them spanned vast and had only grown throughout the years. Its gaping maw stretched wide, a welter of contempt, loathing, and pain brought to boil in its abysmal depths. His entire being ached to see Chu Wanning completely and utterly subjugated, yet a small part of him still felt fourteen, like he would pick down the stars in the sky just so Chu Wanning would direct him with a hint of a smile.

The wood beneath Taxian-jun’s grip creaked. What a pitiable disciple, what a despicable teacher. Chu Wanning had whipped him bloody, and a piece of Mo Ran still wanted to turn like a docile lamb and present his other cheek.

“You’re a bastard, Chu Wanning.” Taxian-jun spat at Chu Wanning’s unperceptive figure. As expected, Chu Wanning remained silent in the onslaught. He had soaked for so long that the tips of his fingers had pruned. Yet unmoving and unaware, with lurid marks littered across his body, he still managed to radiate an ethereal sort of beauty.

Taxian-jun’s anger receded as fast as it had surged, leaving him oddly deflated. He bit his lip and finally picked up a linen, wiping away at Chu Wanning with all the care of a collector cleaning his most prized figurine.

Somehow, Taxian-jun ended up spending the night with Chu Wanning. They were in his personal bedroom, after all, and though Taxian-jun didn’t want someone to take Chu Wanning away, he also couldn’t very well let Chu Wanning oust him from his own room. So, after drying Chu Wanning from the bath, Taxian-jun, a bit begrudgingly, laid him down again on the bed.

The night had deepened to an inky obsidian, and fatigue blearily lapped at Taxian-jun’s consciousness. Chu Wanning, that selfish ingrate, had blissfully slept for the better part of a shichen while This Venerable One assiduously waited on him on hand and foot!

Even so, when Taxian-jun slipped beneath the covers, he curled himself around Chu Wanning possessively, holding him tight against his chest. Like this, the crisp haitang scent that lingered on Chu Wanning overwhelmed his senses, heady and soporific. He nuzzled into Chu Wanning’s neck, pressing kisses atop the bite marks he had left earlier, sighing with something close to contentment.

Eyelids growing heavy, Taxian-jun allowed himself a final kiss on Chu Wanning’s parted lips, tongue gently grazing across the pink mouth, tasting his delicate flavor. He pulled Chu Wanning’s soft body even closer into his embrace, and the First Emperor gradually stilled to the steady rhythm of Chu Wanning’s heartbeat.

Chu Wanning woke up subsumed in an oppressive heat. He scrunched his nose and opened his eyes, registering the hard muscle pressed against his back, the arms wound around his waist. Like a bucket of cold water, sharp clarity drenched him in an instant, and he shot up in a rage, pushing Mo Ran off his body.

With his cultivation gone, though, Chu Wanning’s violent shove barely registered in Taxian-jun’s sleep, and he only mumbled a bit, turning around and kicking the sheets off the bed.

Chu Wanning stared down at himself in a daze, the cruel events from the night before slicing him open like thousands of blades. He wasn’t familiar with how Taxian-jun had rearranged Wushan Palace, so slipping away now would chance his intrusion into unwelcome spaces. Still, Chu Wanning thought he would rather die than meet Taxian-jun’s gaze when he woke up, so he salvaged whatever pieces of his clothing he could, hurriedly arranging himself to appear somewhat presentable and striding to the door.

Yet before he left, with a hand still hovering over the doorknob, Chu Wanning turned back to look at Mo Ran’s form on the bed for a long, long time.

Taxian-jun awoke to an empty bed, the sheets wrapped firmly around him.

He didn’t truly think about the way he had been so carefully swaddled, the top edge of the covering folded down two inches and tucked around his body, until he was thirty-two, as pear blossom white burned a searing trail of bitterness down his throat.

[orthogonals]

亥时已到 | past nine pm

Rating: T Fandom:  魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭/ Mo dao zu shi - Moxiang Tongxiu Word count: 2,218 Pairing: Wei Wuxian/Lan Wangji Summary:  “The past. Do you think… the story could have played to a different conclusion?”

A careful stoicism decorates Lan Wangji’s smooth features, but Wei Wuxian can spot the anguish lurking in the press of his lips, the pools of his eyes. He scoots further into Lan Wangji’s lap, cradling his face and placing soft kisses on his cheeks, his nose, his cupid's bow.

“Ah, my good Lan Zhan. I know what you’re really thinking. You’re asking if you could have done anything to change things.” Wei Wuxian angles Lan Wangji’s chin so that they stare eye-to-eye, noses centimeters apart and breaths intermingling in the cool night. --- OR: Wei Wuxian gets Suibian back. This leads to a much-needed conversation between Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji.

[read on ao3]

It’s far past nine when Wei Wuxian creeps back into the Jingshi, footsteps carefully light despite the weariness that laps at the edges of his body. He expects Lan Zhan in bed— if not asleep, then in light meditation, his brows slightly tightened in Wei Wuxian’s absence.

Instead, as he slips indoors with the grace of a dancer, he’s greeted with the stringent lines of Lan Zhan’s unyielding profile. Clad in billowing white underrobes and cast in the asymmetrical glow of the moon, Lan Wangji appears almost like a deity knelt at the wooden table. A sword rests in his lap. At Wei Wuxian’s entrance, Lan Wangji tilts up his head, and his constricted expression softens.

“Wei Ying.”

“Aiya, Lan Zhan, I told you not to wait up!” Wei Wuxian admonishes even as he plops down at Lan Wangji’s side, slipping his cold fingers underneath the opening of Lan Wangji’s nightrobe.

“Mn,” Lan Wangji hums in response, setting aside the scabbard to wrap his arms around Wei Wuxian’s waist, drawing him closer against his body. “The night-hunt went well?”

“It was alright. The juniors managed to track and lure the monster without my help, but I had to— ah— lend a hand when it came to the final blow. Oh, and Sizhui performed admirably, as always.” Wei Wuxian lets a hint of pride tint his last words. He shifts comfortably into the warmth of Lan Wangji’s hold.

“I expect nothing less,” Lan Wangji intones.

A breeze carries the crisp scent of dewy grass into the Jingshi, and the two men, caught in each other’s embrace, sit in for a moment in comfortable silence. After a while of nuzzling against Lan Wangji’s chest, Wei Wuxian finally lifts his head.

“Jiang Cheng?” With a nod, Wei Wuxian acknowledges Suibian, which Lan Wangji had abandoned on the tabletop.

“Brought with one of the YunmengJiang guest disciples,” Lan Wangji confirms.

“I guess we couldn’t have expected a personal visit.” Wei Wuxian disentangles his arms from Lan Wangji’s clothes to pick up the sword, swiping a gentle thumb against the “随便” etched into the exterior of the sheath. He catches the gravity of Lan Wangji’s gaze and ducks his head.  

“Okay, okay.” With a fluid motion, Wei Wuxian draws the sword out and sends spiritual energy singing into the blade. Red light thrums and dances along its narrow, glinting edges, teasing at the power that simmers beneath. Lan Wangji watches the performance quietly, his posture still. He has not seen Wei Wuxian wield Suibian since his time as a student at the Cloud Recesses.

“Hm. Not bad, my old friend. Missed me, huh?” Wei Wuxian examines the sword contemplatively. The blade flips with a soft gust of air as he turns the hilt. “I can’t believe you can’t tell apart me and Jiang Cheng, really. Preposterous! I’m expecting you to fix your eyesight, you know. Now that I’ll have to start lugging your weight around again.” At Lan Wangji’s slight squeeze, Wei Wuxian sheaths Suibian and turns to face Lan Zhan with a grin.

“I suppose we’ll have to thank Jiang Cheng. If I break another GusuLan practice sword, your uncle might really kick me off the mountain!” Winking an eye, his expression turns mischievous. “Say, Hanguang-Jun, would you honor this one with a duel sometime? I’m much better now than when I was fifteen.”

Wei Wuxian spots a hint of red crawling up edges of Lan Wangji’s earlobes, and he continues with renewed delight. “Just give me, ah, five years, and see if we can draw again!”

Even now, his cultivation level is already much higher than it had been when he was eighteen, around the time when he had given up his core in his previous body. Though Mo Xuanyu’s originally frail physique hinted of long years of abuse and malnourishment, Wei Wuxian had found that dedicated medication, GusuLan training, dual cultivation, hearty meals, and an absolute wealth of past experience contributed to condense his newfound core rather quickly. He’s still taken aback sometimes, at the orb spinning behind his ribs, the light that surges at his fingertips. At the ease with which he can now tamp down the lingering effects of resentful energy, something which had consumed his old self like arsenic.

“No need,” Lan Wangji says, looking down at Wei Wuxian with a soft glow. “Your talent for acquiring new skills has always been remarkable. We will draw within two summers.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian moans, burrowing his face in the crook of Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “Don’t say things like that, I’m only joking. I’ve only got one foot on the sword path, you know. And I’m only good at learning things I’ve made up myself.”

Lan Wangji opens his mouth, perhaps to point out that the very ability to invent things speaks to Wei Ying’s acumen, but he’s distracted again by the sheer, painful familiarity of Suibian lying haphazardly next to Wei Wuxian. Instead, what comes out is: “Do you think things could have changed?”

“Hmm?” Wei Wuxian pulls back to look at Lan Wangji, reaching up to tug gently at a lock of his hair. Lan Wangji catches Wei Wuxian’s errant hand in his own.

“The past. Do you think… the story could have played to a different conclusion?”

A careful stoicism decorates Lan Wangji’s smooth features, but Wei Wuxian can spot the anguish lurking in the press of his lips, the pools of his eyes. He scoots further into Lan Wangji’s lap, cradling his face and placing soft kisses on his cheeks, his nose, his cupid's bow.

“Ah, my good Lan Zhan. I know what you’re really thinking. You’re asking if you could have done anything to change things.” Wei Wuxian angles Lan Wangji’s chin so that they stare eye-to-eye, noses centimeters apart and breaths intermingling in the cool night.

As a principle, Wei Wuxian tries to avoid analyzing his previous life too closely. To think is to dwell, and to dwell means to revisit a knife slice under his ribs; three months spent scavenging among corpses; the dust of the Stygian Tiger Seal scattered with his last breath of life. But Lan Zhan has to understand, so Wei Wuxian would tell him, just this once.

“There is nothing you could have done.” The words simmer in the space between them, low and clear. “A single-plank bridge only goes one way. I never expected to reach twenty-five.” Lan Wangji inhales like he’s been stabbed.

“Wei Ying.”

“Shh,” Wei Wuxian soothes, smoothing the twist in Lan Wangji’s brows with a brush of his thumb. “Listen. Even if Wen Chao didn’t find me that day, didn’t throw me into the Burial Mounds. Would I have survived the battlefield?”

Lan Wangji does not reply, but the answer shines in his gaze like an open wound. At the time, all the four main sects— LanlingJin, GusuLan, QingheNie, YunmengJiang— had known that a war against the QishanWen sect was inevitable. The massacre of Lotus Pier had catalyzed the Sunshot Campaign, but even if Wei Ying had not been rushed to battle, he and Jiang Cheng would have independently sought revenge against the Wens.

How could Wei Ying, without a core, hope to fight with a sword and live in a cultivation war? How could Wei Ying have refused? His missing core was a secret kept for the grave. And even devoid of spiritual powers, how could he want to refuse? Perhaps Cloud Recesses had burned, but Lan Wangji’s brother had survived. His uncle had survived. He survived, and Wei Ying had even nursed his broken leg back to health. Apart from Wei Ying, Jiang Cheng, and Jiang Yanli, every single member of the YunmengJiang sect had been slaughtered.

Wei Wuxian gives a harsh chuckle. “I suppose I should thank Wen Chao for dumping me in that godforsaken place. For leaving me no other options. He extended my life expectancy.”

“I would have protected you,” Lan Wangji says at last. “If you did not have a method of protecting yourself.”

“Lan Er-gege, you’re so good. Do you know that?” Wei Wuxian smiles softly at the man before him. He rewards Lan Wangji with another feather of a kiss, a press at the corner of his lips. “But I wouldn’t have let you get close. You would have found me out in a heartbeat.”

“I—”

Wei Wuxian stops Lan Wangji with a finger against his mouth.

“At the time, Jiang Cheng was just beginning to rebuild the YunmengJiang sect. And he was so young. We all were. I couldn’t take any risks.” He holds one of Lan Wangji’s hands to his face, caresses the soft palm and presses kisses against the slender fingertips. After a beat, he exhales.

“You understand, don’t you? Why I couldn’t come with you to Gusu.”

Lan Wangji seems to have lost the ability to speak. Though his expression has hardly changed during their conversation, a pot of emotions bubble and lurch in his chest, thick and messy.

Wei Wuxian thinks that they're almost at a limit for such a fraught discussion. Still, if he gets all the words out now, clears out all the cobwebs of misunderstanding, then maybe Lan Zhan will let go of the notion that he could've possibly saved Wei Wuxian from an unavoidable downfall.

“I am glad, Lan Zhan, that you did not take a more determined approach. Even then, I liked you a lot. But I would have pushed you away. I would have hurt you even more than I already did.” At this Wei Wuxian pauses, squeezing Lan Wangji’s hand. “I liked you too much to let you seek your death on my single-plank bridge.”

Lan Wangji remembers. Get out, Wei Wuxian had uttered, repeatedly and incessantly, a low growl at his throat. His skin ran hot with fever, and Lan Wangji had bit back tears, desperately transferring spiritual energy into Wei Wuxian. It barely seemed to help. Wei Wuxian was weak, skin and bones, dark circles smeared like ink beneath his eyes. But he had enough strength to demand one thing. Get out!

“The truth is, I didn’t get dealt the cards for a long, happy life. And I made my peace with it, I really did.”

What he does not say, but Lan Wangji hears, is that he had accepted the ticking clock of the end of his life the moment he— a boy not yet twenty— watched the last tendrils of spiritual energy leave his body. When the surging tides of his power stilled into dead water, and a piece of himself, carved out of flesh and blood, took root and blossomed inside Jiang Wanyin.

“Tch, Lan Zhan, I can hear what you’re thinking. Disrespecting sect leaders is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses.”

“Mn. Not forbidden,” Lan Wangji grits out, face stony. For once, he resents his characteristic reticence. He holds a jar of jumbled thoughts and not a single word to express them.

Wei Wuxian knows what Lan Wangji must have looked like, when he first heard the truth about his core spill like blood from Wen Ning’s lips. He must have gazed at him the way he does now, with that mixture of shock, grief, and turmoil swimming in the amber of his irises.

He doubts that anyone, even Lan Zhan, will ever truly understand why he had made that initial decision, the one that kickstarted the tragic trajectory of the rest of his life. Because they didn’t hear the dying words of Madam Yu, slammed bone-deep into his chest: protect Jiang Cheng with your life. They didn’t watch Uncle Jiang openly chase his own demise, trusting Wei Wuxian with his only son.

They weren’t there to see the days of Jiang Cheng lying prone on Wen Qing’s bed, tatters of blood-stained purple hanging off his limp form, eyes blank and unseeing. Jiang Cheng, clad in the remnants of a sect with only three living members, a reminder of the revenge he couldn’t fulfill and the world he could no longer lead. Wei Wuxian would’ve given him anything then, to put the pride back in his stare and restore the anger that colored the lilt of his voice. He would’ve gladly given his life. What was a golden core? It was never even a question.

“I’ve made many mistakes in my past life, especially towards the end. But my core— that’s one decision I will never regret.” Wei Wuxian states firmly, nodding at Lan Wangji with intention. Lan Wangji replies with a barely perceptible sound.

“Wei Ying…” He trails off helplessly. What is left to say? Everything had happened more than ten years in the past. He cannot hope to alter the choices he had made, and neither can Wei Ying. Perhaps they would have always ended up here, Wei Ying in a foreign body and him in one marked by the scars born of his love. But if it ends with them together, no matter their shape or form, then Lan Wangji cannot bring himself to begrudge the path.

“Wei Ying, I love you.”

Wei Wuxian huffs a laugh into the folds of Lan Wangji’s robe. “I love you, Lan Zhan." He leaps to his feet, knees creaking, dragging Lan Wangji along by the ends of his sleeves. "Now come, let’s sleep. It’s past nine.”

[orthogonals]

aristos achaion

ii.

dark hair and darker eyes, skin brown and buttered so he’s a prince then, why ducked head why slumped shoulders? i watch over tips of heads and glittering plates, a pout tilted a fierce frown not suited for the smooth nut-soaked brow, clenched teeth don’t belong in a face made for smiles my feet take the space his leaves the toes slot up perfect in small hollows, one by one our pieces fit and flow and follow and i can only find anchor in sure words measure music by upturned palms and lifting lashes

he tastes milk-rich and fig-sweet our mouths warm wine his lips pulsing and pliant he smells like crushed olives the crisp skin of red apples hung low on the tree, sweat slippery under the length of my skin safe in the dip of my body his neck the tang of salted sea

he’s the dark earth and the lapping line where water kisses sky, the wind spoken in sighs the oars supple on rise the light that shines in all men’s eyes he’s all that’s good and everything right 

he slips inside the gaps of my feet away from warm covers mountaintops safe. a thousand ships sent a thousand faces chant his brow set his hands white and i may dance in gore turn grass to graveyards but he cannot stain he cannot eat living flesh jumping breath in pillars of flame parts to collect he brings light without the fire spines creak limbs stutter i bend throats and hearts he mends punctured sons peeled fathers brushes dust off my armor wipes blood from my shoulders cleanses death off my tongue in secrets and shudders

stone does not bend stone does not break i am not clay i’m marble the columns lifting rooftops what walls wish they were made of i do not hang limp off the muscle of someone’s shield arm (outside could be winter, cold stealing gasp after gasp legs flail screams fail no longer my people i will not halt this wrath. not even for him.) anything, anything, anything but i love him as a rushing sea until earth’s ends meet but give this i cannot he’s always known how to turn a no he shutters down a sheen of gold he offers white hands ready for red but this is battle not bed outside i have no power to protect my healing spring my dreamless rest a touch, words whispered, firm hands steady stance and suddenly i’m smothering him in my armor covering a smiling face with my helmet beating urgency in sound tasting him telling them i trust you with him be careful. come back.

dark curls chest shorn a starburst of blood on a canvas of sweet lips soft hands firm skin unseeing eyes a scream claws itself out of me a living thing where’s the nearest edge i want to bleed until i am still like he is cold lips wilted hands cloying skin closed eyes he feels nothing like warm sheets and clean water and gentle cloth but i hold him and drink him and wear him over my skin breathe him in think of olives and apples over the putrid odor of flesh bubbled beneath the sun because that’s not him he’s the best of all men

i give chase as i am born to do birthed as a weapon let’s see how i gleam what are gods and fate and custom if food and drink and sleep mean nothing i present him a body dragged scraped and battered i wish i could look the same just broken bones ground and scattered i will fight until the wisps of our charred bodies caress, until dirt joins us together (we swore, remember? together this time and the time after next, this life and the life after that, this world and that world and any world that dares come between)

i wait for him. i will wait until the sky drops and shatters, until the seas dry to dust under cracked feet. (for love is love is love and he’s the blood that maps my body, the second half of my heartbeat.)

i

— w.g

[orthogonals]

Hey, I saw that you are taking prompts. I very much enjoyed your Achilles/Patroclus story so I'd be thrilled if you wrote more in that universe. Maybe a take on their relationship from another person's POV (eg Briseis, Thetis, Chiron...) Or a crossover with Merthur? :)

Thanks for the ask! Achilles/Patroclus always sends me in an emotional spiral. I wrote this for “their relationship from another POV,” hope you enjoy!

~A note on prompts: I won’t have much time to answer the in the coming months, but still feel free to send them in, and I’ll get to them when/if I can!~

through their eyes

rating: T

words: 1509

summary: Aristos Achaion, they called him. Plucked from the spilled blood between Thetis’ thighs and granted a prophecy by the Gods. He flashed past the other boys, quick as an intake of breath, and Peleus’ face shone. Menotides turned to Patroclus.

“That is what a son should be.”

–

Five times Achilles and Patroclus were the subject of observation during their lives, + one time they weren’t.

read on ao3!

i.

The games beat a broken path through Opus, a thousand calloused feet rubbing the dry dirt raw. Menoitides directed the affair with customary severity, ordering servants out to break rock and clear track until even the seething sun had taken rest. He held a hard nub of determination that his games would hail as the best of the generation, would bear glory upon his shoulders. Glory to rival the glow of Apollo himself; glory enough to erase the festering blight of his weak son, his simple wife.

The youngest boys formed their line, eyes glinting with excitement and the thrill of victory. Peleus’ son stood half a head shorter amongst them, impossible to miss. He reflected light like a piece of glass in the sand. Beside him, Patroclus fiddled dumbly with the wreath. Menoitides clenched his teeth until his jaw clicked.

Aristos Achaion, they called him. Plucked from the spilled blood between Thetis’ thighs and granted a prophecy by the Gods. He flashed past the other boys, quick as an intake of breath, and Peleus’ face shone. Menotides turned to Patroclus.“That is what a son should be.”

And when Menotides exiled Patroclus to Phthia, shame and anger warping inside him, he spared the stupid boy only one parting wish— that he might learn something from Achilles’ shadow.

ii.

The fire cast Peleus’ chambers in a mute glow. Dim crackling filled the spaces between his words, a second voice mingling to tell the tale.Peleus sat deep in his chair, arms dangling like grapevines. Day by day, age seeped further under his skin, to his bones. He hardly felt like the man who had served Heracles and rode with Jason.

Achilles shuffled in the shadows, his eyes a glint of green from the dark. Peleus traced Achilles gaze to Patroclus, who had tilted his mouth in a sweet grin. Achilles’ teeth flashed white in return, and the smile was almost unnatural to see on his son.He remembered youth, of quick heartbeats and rushing hot blood. Of furtive glances at the sweat-coated curve of muscle that stretched across the back of his general. But Achilles, great as he might become, was not yet a man, had not experience nor understanding.

A hand shot out and circled around Patroclus’ ankle. Achilles’ snicker, half-covered, rolled into the air from his corner. Peleus did not miss the light brush of Achilles’ thumb against Patroclus’ heel, the softening of Patroclus’ face.

He called for an end to the night, carefully slipping mention of a servant girl who wished to bed Achilles. The sudden shutter of Achilles’ face confirmed all that remained unspoken.

iii.

The wind stirred the trees and sent air unfurling, crisp and clean, through the leaves. Chiron shifted his tail at the breeze, nosing the scent in the atmosphere. Rain was due by nightfall. He inclined his head towards the boys, a lecture on weather-reading in mind.Achilles and Patroclus were crouched in the grass beyond him, huddled so close that their hair brushed. Chiron heard their soft murmurs of conversation as they probed the ground for herbs. Their fingers touched and lingered among the green blades.

It was unusual for a hero to have remained so long in the crags and caves of Mount Pelion, more unusual still to have done so with a companion. Chiron never asked his heroes to go, yet the day always came when they donned armor and rode to battle.Young Achilles was birthed with greatness sighed above him, sticking on lips like honey. He would take whatever measures necessary to make the words true. Chiron knew Achilles, saw his unerring limbs and swift feet. Saw his blank eyes, the mark of all heroes.

Blank for all but Patroclus, who melted Achilles like brown sugar over fire, shifted his balance from half-god to half-human. Such a thing was as rare as juniper in spring, and Chiron could do little but to protect Achilles’ link to humanity.

Chiron called for them, amused as they leaped back from each other with pink cheeks.

iv.

Briseis lingered by the tent, the flap of the entrance thick and coarse beneath her fingers. The flat bottom of the plate pressed, heavy and cool, on her hand. She glanced at the berries rolling about on its surface, ripe and fat with juice. Their thick skins, washed clean, gleamed in the fading light like pearls. Her pulse thrummed in her neck. She would ask Patroclus today. The berries bumped off each other as she reached to open the tent.

A soft moan stopped her hand in midair, the ties still loose in her palm. She redid the ties with practiced ease, hissing quietly, and quickly backed away. Another sound joined the first, followed by an unmistakable sigh: “Achilles.”

Briseis stopped, eyes wide as the emerging moon, filled with a horrendous wonder.

A response. “Patroclus,” each syllable drawn out and rounded, the word infused with sweetness.  More moans carried away by the evening air, stretched sighs that faded even as they reached Briseis’ ears. She willed her legs to move and carry her away, but they were frozen, stuck to the ground.

Finally, after the sun had slipped from the sky, came the sounds that peaked and tapered away slowly, leaving only breath behind.

“Patroclus.” Achilles’ clear voice, somehow warmed. “Therapon, philtatos.”

“Dikos mou,” Patroclus replied, the words sounding muffled by skin. She listened to his gentle kisses, her Greek proficient enough to understand what he had said.

Dikos mou. Mine.

Briseis left, haunted by the sounds of Patroclus’ love.

v.

The ground hummed as Patroclus spoke, the throat of a melody. Thetis felt his pain course through the earth, making the grass shiver. He spoke of her son with words soft like cotton, as yielding as a freshly plowed field.

Humans were weak, rarely logical and far too easy victim to their emotions. Thetis expected Patroclus to rage of his anger, speak seething of the gods. To lament Achilles and curse his hubris. To give bitter insult to Neoptolemus, his refusal to give Patroclus proper rest.

Instead, all she felt from him was love, strong and coursing.

Below, Achilles’ sorrow speared through her in waves. Hades did not welcome those of Olympus, and her son ached like a limb, a part of her own body. Patroclus’ words washed over the grief that laced her skin, hers and Achilles’ together, soothing as a balm of yarrow.

As always, the salty spray of the sea sang to her, crowded the edge of her senses. But for the first time, she closed her mind to the waters and let herself listen. The hill vibrated beneath her feet.

She scooped away the stone like jam, carving the name with one dark fingernail. PATROCLUS. Together, with her son. In writing as in life, as forever in Elysium.

She smiled as she told him.

~vi.~

Agamemnon whirled towards Diomedes, face white and contorted.

“They have no sense of propriety.” He spit out the words through gnashing teeth, fury tightening his lips.

Achilles and Patroclus giggled at Agamemnon from behind an oak tree, fingers laced together. Patroclus gave him a hard eye roll, and Achilles blew a raspberry before quickly ducking back behind the trunk. Their laughter carried over, tinkling like windchimes.

Agamemnon clenched his fists until his veins popped. “This needs to stop. I will go to Hades himself if I must.”

Diomedes gnawed eagerly at his leg of lamb, letting out a chorus of appreciative moans.

“DIOMEDES!” Agamemnon stamped his feet. “Useless slob!”

Diomedes finally extracted his mouth from the half-eaten roast, lips slippery with oil and bits of herb plastered around his face.

“Give it a rest, Mem.”

“I will not—”

“Just because you got in a spat with your old lady—”

“DO NOT MENTION CLYTEMNESTRA!” Agamemnon toppled dangerously at the intensity of his yell, face coloring from white to purple.

“Look.” Diomedes sighed dramatically and placed a greasy hand on Agamemnon’s shoulder. Agamemnon immediately ducked away, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“You’ve been on about this for, like, three thousand years of their time.” He pointed a finger upwards with emphasis. “When you first started ranting, we were still pissing in holes. In Elysium. Now, we have state-of-the-art toilets with bidets. Bidets, man.”

Agamemnon blanched, eying Diomedes like a particularly stubborn piece of mud on his shoe. “You talk about toilets. While eating.

“Just. Why don’t you go bother Odysseus and Penelope for now? They’re also looking pretty sickeningly happy.”

Odysseus and Penelope waved at them from the distance, and Agamemnon threw up his middle finger.

“Or, go to the sauna or something. You’re always less stressed after a spa trip.”

“Ugh.” Agamemnon grumbled, throwing another stink eye at Achilles and Patroclus, who were now sitting on the ground and giving each other butterfly kisses. “Fine. But I will get them. Mark my words.” He backed away slowly, keeping a menacing stare trained at Achilles. A rock caught his heel, and he stumbled over himself, tripping and falling with a thump.

Elysium echoed with laughter.

[orthogonals]

aristos achaion

i. 

green eyes and nimble feet and skin kissed golden from the rays of the sun i can feel him even here, the slightly-warm too hot burning of the gaze of a god and a brow too soft for marble heads and a jaw however sharp however hard too gentle to wear blood and bear battle

he tastes honey-thick and fig-sweet and our lips brush and bumble and break and bruise he feels petal soft and summer warm, buds blossoming in flush under tongue and touch and a grip beneath fingertips

he’s the whispering rain and a sky clear enough to swim in, the stretch of saplings in spring the earth that blushes green the light that shines on all things he’s of what poets sing

slender arms and swift legs and steady hands, a dance among all the bloodied bodies we’ve yet to bury spear for a lyre sword for a lute, he’s golden beneath the sun but it’s not him just his armor a mother a daughter a punctured son a peeled father, each arch and give a flame choked to ash the field around him dims but maybe that’s because he glows when he twists he shimmers as he leaps he rises and floats and he’s the brightest wildfire to lick this parched grass, what’s a candle to a star what’s a spark to a constellation? he scorches the earth but i cannot see

(outside could be fall, autumn leaves shock red and tumbling i cry i plead still the tears bring nothing) anything, anything, anything but lips blear and burn and bring a no formed between a stone forehead creased, a chin jut out the dull edge of a used blade i know him as i know how to speak and to think and to move and to breathe, i know marble cannot sway but perhaps it can shift with words ripped and dripped in false shine the reflection in gleaming teeth gutting eyes his voice a beat in my ear his hands a salve on my skin his lips a press through his helmet. his armor does not shine in the sun for me. but i love him even when the sun lays dying.

these hands that once split a boy and now cut sores from studded thighs and groans from seized shoulders crack and spill once again, sharp stone rough grip white bone nothing so tough as animals, the flash and blur the victory ditty of the best of them all who makes men swarm, gives flood and brings tremble

the looming pith borne on a chariot of clouds, the rock whetted to a tip tearing past rough grip white bone and i would go but for the air that billows through him like dust on a throne, i would go but to keep his summer heat his tender spring his life the life of all things his name the last on my tongue

i burn as he burns, i shrink as he shrinks, time taps an incessant miser a magnanimous thief we mingle in flakes of burnt blood, the dust of our bodies the ash of our bones, together as i told him as we swore when we were both whole and we didn’t leak (together this time and the time after next, this life and the life after that, this world and that world and any world that dares come between) 

she scratches in my name, dark nails white shale stone cold as sleet i go. (i will always go where he waits, tear through skies and seas ‘til we meet. for love is love is love and he’s the flesh beneath my skin, the second half of my heartbeat.)

ii

— w.g

[orthogonals]

a little fic

We sat by the lake. The wet grass flicked droplets of dew at my feet, and the newly woken sun beat down on us softly from above. I gazed at Patroclus from the corner of my eye. Rustling leaves scattered the sunshine to a thousand rays, and pinpricks of light danced on the rich brown of his cheeks. His eyes were closed, his face tilted forward. The dark lashes fringing his eyelids gleamed as if dipped in oil.

I felt something swell inside me, a feeling unnamed. The dim blood and unceasing battle of the fields of Troy could not reach us here. Our fingers brushed in the thickets of grass, and only the hum of the forest stretched between us. I think moments like this are what keep me sane.

His tunic hung loose off broad shoulders, slipping in the breeze. I traced the exposed panes of his back with a long glance, and blood pulsed in my ears like the swish of wine in a krater. That expanse of flat muscle was as familiar to me as the breath in my body, but my desire to touch and to taste never ceased.

We came to Troy so that all men might know the Aristos Achaion. We came to Troy, and we built our lives warily around the space filled by my foretold death. But I cannot imagine the life of a shade. I cannot imagine Elysium without this. Without him.

Hector’s death still lingered in the haunts of my dreams. The image was always the same: I stand before him in a grove. The laurel twists us in like shadows of the night. Cold fury and piercing agony wrestle inside me as waves crashing on rock, the anguish so fierce that a dull ache remains in the morning.

I am ruthless as the spear flies, its glinting tip carving a path to Hector’s throat. He falls.

Hector is dead, and I know my death will follow, as swift and sure as the course of a river. I cannot feel anything other than relief.

I did not tell Patroclus of these things. We did not have time enough to worry.

Patroclus sighed from beside me, a soft sound like birdsong. He bumped his knee into mine.

Caught by a sudden mischief, I pushed myself over, wrestling him into the slippery dew. His eyes flickered open, catching the dance of the light. A smile played sweetly on his mouth. He drew me in close and brushed his lips against mine. The wash of his scent, dark earth and apples, squeezed my breath somewhere high.

“Patroclus,” I said.

“Achilles,” he replied, his voice coloring my name like a melody. He smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Unruly curls framed his face, his body a lean line beneath mine.

The feeling seized me again, filled me until I thought to burst. I gave a sly grin and lunged forward. Patroclus yelped and squirmed as I pressed kisses to his forehead, his nose, his cheeks. The air tinkled with his laughter.

Our foreheads rested together, and his thumb rose to brush my face.

“Whatever may happen,” I begun, and my voice cracked. I took a shallow breath. “Promise that we shall always be together.”

That we would find each other, in life and in death.

Something solemn swam in his gaze. He tipped his head up and whispered his words like a secret.

“We cannot be kept apart, for we are two halves of a whole. I promise.”