#patrochillesweek

[dandymorbs]

Day 2 of Patrochilles Week: Military Camp

@patrochillesweek

[johaerys-writes]

Fandom: The Song of Achilles Pairing: Achilles/Patroclus

I was once again inspired by the incredible @silver-peel and their gorgeous art, which you can see right here. I’m in tears, I love it so much 😭  So have some wintertime fluff with the world’s happiest boys :) 

I also wrote this for the @patrochillesweek​ 90-min Valentine’s day challenge!! I hope you enjoy <3

Read on AO3!

It had been a long day.

With the first signs of cold winds coming from the North, Chiron had had us gather the herbs we had left in the sun to dry, dig as many wild beets and onions as we could from the ground, pick the wild irises and hellebore that blossomed on the eastern side of the mountain, where the sun shone the brightest. Their stems were still small and tender, the petals not fully opened, but we picked them regardless, lest they burned with the frost.

It had been hard, repetitive work, and my limbs were heavy from the exertion. By the time the sun had dipped below Mount Pelion’s western peaks, covered white with snow, I would have gladly gone straight to bed. But the flowers and herbs we’d gathered still needed to be tied in small bunches and hung upside down to dry, and our tough winter shoes needed to be mended. So after we’d had our humble dinner of roast vegetables and rabbit stew, and Achilles had finished playing a few songs on the lyre for us, we sat close by the fire to continue our work, while Chiron worked on his powders and pastes.

The wind howled beyond our small cave, making the leaves of the apple trees rustle and shiver, but inside the cave it was warm. The fire crackled merrily, the dancing flames reflecting on the jagged peaks of the rose quartz ceiling. Condensation glittered on the surface of the crystals, like the happy tears of autumn clouds.

It wasn’t long before my arms felt tired, my eyelids heavy. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate on tying the irises into small, neat bunches, while Achilles’ soft, idle humming beside me soothed and calmed me.

I set my the bunch I’d been tying beside me, and leaned back into the furs. A moment’s pause couldn’t hurt; I would get back to work in a little while, I told myself, and turned to watch Achilles. The fire bronzed his sharp profile, shadows danced in the hollows of his eyes, the column of his throat. His long eyelashes caressed his cheekbones as he stared down at his work, his long, slender fingers pushing the needle through tough leather quickly and effortlessly, as if through butter.

Beautiful, I thought, and the thought came to me as naturally as my breath. It had been the quiet undercurrent of my life for so long, that I couldn’t imagine myself without it. Without him.

I let my lids fall closed, with the image of the amber flames limning the hair that fell in soft waves about his face, making it gleam like spun gold. The logs in the fireplace crackled and sputtered gently as I dozed, drifting deeper into sleep.

I jolted when I felt a light pinch on my shoulder.

“What?” I gasped, heart lurching in my throat as I sat upright on the furs. “What was that?”

Chiron glanced up from his mortar, his horse ears standing up in alarm.

“What was what, Patroclus?” Achilles asked.

“I— I felt something.”

“Did you? I’m sure it was nothing.” He smiled, mischief tugging at the edges on his lips before he turned to Chiron. “Patroclus must have had a bad dream, Chiron,” he said to the centaur, with that sweet and gentle voice that always used to make Phoenix and his tutors back in Phthia melt, no matter how naughty he’d been before.

I squinted at him, and at his artfully innocent expression. “Yes,” I murmured. “A dream.”

Achilles flashed me a quick, conspiratorial grin before returning to the boot he'd been working on, the perfect image of calmness and composure.  

I shook my head and sighed, taking up my work again. We worked for a while in silence, no other sound except for the flames in the hearth and the wind blowing through the trees outside.

My focus had been entirely consumed by my work, so much so, that I didn’t even notice the pesky fingers that slid underneath the furs once again. I yelped when I felt a pinch on my thigh, slightly harder this time.

“Achilles!”

He blinked at me innocently. “Yes?”

I frowned, my cheeks growing hot when Chiron paused what he was doing to stare at us again.

“Is something the matter, Patroclus?” he asked, but his knowing eyes were on Achilles.

“I think Patroclus has grown tired, Chiron.”

“Has he now?” the centaur hummed, a low sound that rumbled in his chest. “Then he should go to sleep. You both should. It’s been a long day.”

“Yes, it has.” Achilles set his work aside and uncoiled from beside me like a snake, stretching his long limbs with a yawn. He walked past me towards the interior of the cave, but not before his fingers lightly brushed the nape of my neck. A slight shiver ran through me at the contact, before I could help it.

“Are you coming, Patroclus?”

“Yes,” I murmured, and gathered all the bunches I had tied to set them on Chiron’s workbench. “Goodnight, Chiron.”

The old centaur gazed up at me under his thick, dark eyebrows, the tiniest of smiles tugging at his lips. “Goodnight to you too, Patroclus.”

I ducked under the soft leather panels that separated our part of the cave from Chiron’s. Achilles was already in bed, tucked underneath the pile of furs we used to cover us at night.

“What was that for?” I demanded quietly, careful not to raise my voice.

Achilles’ brows lifted in silent question, as if he hadn’t the faintest idea what I was referring to. “What?”

"Of course. 'What.'" I rolled my eyes and sighed, shaking my head as I splashed some water on my face over our small basin. It was cold and crisp, straight from the half-frozen stream beyond the cave, and I shivered. I slipped out of my chiton and slid under the furs beside Achilles, the bedding already warm from his body.

I hadn’t even settled on the mattress before Achilles’ hand on my waist pulled me close. His lips were on mine in an instant, his tongue still sweet with honey and spices from our dessert. I quiet moan rose to my throat, muffled against Achilles' lips. My fingers threaded through his hair before thought reached them, drawing him closer still. His skin was hot under my touch, as if he’d been running, and I could feel his pulse on my fingertips when I brushed them down the column of his slender throat.

Read the rest on AO3!

[glimmerofgold]

Melodies of Hope and Grief

@patrochillesweek 2021 - Day 1: Music

When I first heard him play the song we were thirteen and it was winter. Mount Pelion, covered in a thick white blanket, was eerily silent. It was rare now to hear the birds singing - even they appeared to have hidden away from the frost. We were much the same, having retreated to the far back of the cave, wrapped up in a pile of furs.

When the first snowflakes had tumbled from the sky not long ago we had been giddy, excited. We had chased each other across the meadows, had watched the river slowly freeze over. The bitter cold had not bothered us in the least - until one morning I had woken up with my voice gone and my head feeling light.

Chiron, with a stern look on his wise face, had ordered me to stay inside and keep warm and though the same instructions hadn't been given to Achilles, he had not left my side once. Instead he had listened attentively as our mentor had spoken of the healing qualities of honey, had eagerly helped him prepare a mixture out of herbs for me to drink.

At night we curled up close on our pallet, each other's bodies the only source of heat available. I grew familiar to the feeling of his arms wrapped around me, of his warm breath against my skin, of his curls tickling my nose. How much of it was intentional, I did not know, but every night without fail I found myself in the same position, the steady rise and fall of Achilles' chest lulling me to sleep.

After a week spent inside, I expected him to become restless. He was not used to sitting still, was eager at best and impatient at worst, and yet he made no move to leave the cave - or me. With nothing else left to do, he had taken up playing the lyre again, and that was how the song had come to be. I had never heard him play it before, the melody entirely new to me. The sweet sounds that his fingers plucked from the strings resounded from the walls, the music surrounding us fully. His eyes were closed as he played, a small smile lingering on his lips.

It was a happy song, quick as flowing water, and I found myself getting lost in it until it ended, rather abruptly, and Achilles looked at me with an expression so thoughtful that it made me laugh. "Why did you stop?" I asked him, earning myself a shrug as an answer. "It's not finished," he replied, but the very next day he played it again for me.

As we changed, the song changed with us. It grew longer, more wistful, a reminder of the childhood we had left behind. He played it for me as we sat on the cliffs of Skyros, gazing out at the ships passing by on the sea below. It spilled from his lyre as we set sail for Troy, the quick, bright melody taking on a slower, more heavy quality. "What's it about?" I wanted to know, but the only reply I received was another shrug before he started anew.

He never told me. Night after night the music filled our tent, no matter how tired he was, no matter the energy battle had cost him. He only ever played it for me, our eyes locking as his deft fingers tickled the strings. The song still had no ending - the lyre usually abandoned in the corner as we fell into each other, not driven by the cold this time but by our longing.

At night, I felt his arms around me, felt his breath against my shoulder and his heartbeat against my ribs, and I was thirteen again, young and carefree. In the mornings, we strapped on our armor and turned back into the soldiers we had become.

The last time he played the song for me, tears were cascading down his cheeks. I watched as they fell from his eyes like rain, as they covered the lifeless body resting across his lap. The once lively melody would have been barely recognizable, had it not been so familiar to me. What had been a cheerful, then thoughtful tune had turned into a lament, our pain incarnate.

This time, it did have an ending. As Achilles laid down the instrument and leant in to leave a kiss against my cold brow, I heard him whisper, finally, the answer to all my questions.

"You," he breathed. "It is about you, my love."

[Find me on ao3]

[disorder-alice]

Patrochilles Week day 6 - Modern! AU

@patrochillesweek 2021

Some headcanons! ✨

The first time that Patroclus saw Achilles, he was sitting at his table during lunch break at school and he reminds him of a Regina-George-Sort-of – creature. Turns out that he's just a blonde dumbass.

Achilles is the golden boy of the athletics team, expecially in, well, you know, running and stuff like this.

Patroclus, on the other hand, is a member of the photography club, but he uses to stick around the Earth club with Briseis. They eat veg brownies together.

With the excuse he's a member of the photography club, Patroclus takes a million pictures of Achilles. He acts like he didn't notice him (not being sneaky at all), and manages to look surprised everytime Patroclus show him the pictures.

Most of these pictures, plus a bunch of others with both of them and some more with their friends are placed all over their tiny apartment.

Both of them are awful cooks. They live of take-away food and meals cooked by some charitables souls (Briseis and sometimes Chiron) .

They say that they didn't act like lovey-dovey when they hang out with their friends, but they do. They definitely do.

Eskimo kisses are always on the agenda.

Usually, Patroclus is the one who fall asleep first, and Achilles is the one who wake up first.

Patroclus loves to wear Achilles clothes. (No tragic implications this time, i swear)

Achilles heart melts everytime he sees Patroclus snuggling in his sweaters.

He secretly buys them a little to big, so they can fit both of them.

They always leave each other sticky-notes around the house with something cheesy scribbled on.

I can't decide who's the one who didn't hold alcohol at all. Maybe Achilles. Sounds funny.

Patroclus loves houseplants, but he, poor thing, didn't have the green thumb at all.

Achilles gifted him a little succulent that is miraculously still alive.

Her name, for some unknown reasons, is Patricia.

[glimmerofgold]

Home

@patrochillesweek 2021 - Day 3: Phthia

Nine years. Nine long years of war and though he doesn't show it, I know he feels as tired as I do. Achilles, who as a boy never knew how to sit down, now holds me tighter every morning, as though he cannot gather the strength to get through another day. Where before he used to chatter like a bird, now he's silent as he forces himself to rise and allows me to put his armor on him.

It's on these mornings that I wonder. In all the loathsome time spent on the plains of Troy, there was one thought in particular that I never allowed myself to consider. What if? a voice would whisper in the back of my head, insistent, cruel. What if you had never met him? What if he had not been Aristos Achaion? What if you'd stayed where you belonged? Home. Phthia. I never listened, never indulged in the nostalgia. Not until that ninth year. That terrible ninth year.

As soon as I let the memories wash over me, they will not stop. I stand there, hand still resting where I placed it on his shoulder minutes ago, but my mind is elsewhere.

Before my eyes I see the stretch of a beach, sunlit and bright, the boy running along it even brighter. I can almost smell the olive groves in the distance, those old trees we used to climb, Achilles recklessly reaching for even the highest of branches. The halls of the palace, narrow but never claustrophobic. His father's voice as he tells us of the heroes of old, the fire crackling close-by. Sneaking into the kitchen before dinner to secure the sweetest, ripest fruits for ourselves. Achilles' laugh as he tosses a fig my way just as he did that first time.

It's been a long time now since I heard him laugh that way. His once vivid eyes have since been casted over by a shadow, the light in them increasingly dulled by sorrow.

Does he, too, think of home? Does he feel the same longing that I feel, to leave all this behind and set sail, to return, blind to the consequences it would bring along? Does he dream of being back in his room sometimes, of how he hooked his chin over my shoulder and wrapped his arms around me from behind as we gazed out the window towards the sea? Does he miss the stolen moments, the smiles and the shy touches, the safety, the hope, the love we shared, innocent, not yet grown to its full potential?

My heart aches as I look at him. Slowly, my hand slides up his neck towards his jaw, cupping it as I catch his eyes. There's a strange expression on his face, lugubrious and fond all the same, but he does not speak. Neither do I.

I know he understands, even if he does not imagine the same things that I do. His thoughts, unlike mine, are not stuck on the past. It's the future that weighs down on him instead, the threat looming above both our heads, the imminent storm of pain and loss.

While I long for the Phthia of our childhood, a place we can never return to, he longs for the Phthia that could have been. Him, the king. Me, by his side.

[Find me on ao3]

[disorder-alice]

Patrochilles Week day day 7 - Love Letters

@patrochillesweek 2021

It's not a proper Love letter, I wrote down what I think Achilles and Patroclus would have written on the "cheesy sticky notes" that I mentioned in my previous entry for the week. Hope you enjoy!

-

My dear. Dear. Darling.

Every minute without you Weighs on me like the whole sky is Leaning on my shoulders. I cannot put into words how much I miss you.Can't wait to see you this evening

A.

Achilles, love of my life. Light of all my days. I love you with all my heart and soul, you know.

But if you leave the toilet seat up one more time, I'll glue your beautiful ass on it.

Your, Patroclus

I watered Patricia this morning, and I put her on the windowsill, for a sunbath. She seems a little sad, because she miss your special touch, and so am I. Love you

A.

I know that's extra cheesy even for us two, I know that you're just one room away, but I can't help to write this one more time just to see your stupid face smiling while reading.

I. Love. You.

Patroclus

Don't be mad at me, sweetheart. I ate the last bag of chips, but I sneaked out to grab a bunch of others. Wait for me, babe. I'll come back soon

A.

I'm off to see Briseis for a quick trip at the trifh store. If you're looking for your Grey sweater, I'm currently wearing it.

Love u, Patroclus

I hate leaving the house after a fight with you, but you're sleeping so... I'll leave you a note.

I'm so sorry. I'm such a hothead sometimes. But I love you, I love you. I love you.

A.

Pizza and movie at 9.30 this evening! Don't forget!!!!

Patroclus

Did you eat enough babe? Just in case, I have left some toast for you in the kitchen.

Don't forget to drink too.

Love you

A.

About last night... Oh God babe. I think that the neighbors have eard something. They have definitely eard something.

Ps: it was so good, babe. So good.

Patroclus

I love you.

Just this

A.

I love you too.

Patroclus

[glimmerofgold]

Begged and Borrowed (Excerpt)

@patrochillesweek 2021 - Day 4: Friends to Lovers

For today's prompt, here's a short excerpt from my recently finished story "Begged and Borrowed" that I published on AO3. In this, Patroclus and Achilles only meet in their adulthood at the shores of Troy - and under less than ideal circumstances. If you want to give the whole thing a read, you can do so here!

It's the sweetest kind of torture, the way each day feels fleeting and endless all at once.

Whenever Achilles is not by his side, a longing resides in Patroclus' chest that is unlike anything he has ever experienced before. It seems impossible to focus even on the easiest of tasks, his actions happening by mere default while his attention is somewhere else entirely.

It's a thirst that cannot be sated, every minute spent with the other like a drop of water on his lips, promising more - but the very moment he leaves, his throat ends up feeling even drier than it did before. No matter how much he takes, he simply cannot get enough, always craving more and more and more.

If Achilles were a river, he thinks, he would drown in him with a smile on his face.

The intensity of his longing scares him, yet at the same time he would not wish for it to be any other way. Too sweet is the other's laugh when it erupts from his mouth, too bright the green of his eyes when they gaze into his own, the image forever preserved in his mind.

There is more, still.

Even when they're apart, he can feel the man's touch against his skin.

At every given opportunity, Achilles brushes through his curls or traces patterns against his shoulder. His hand lingers against the small of Patroclus' back as they walk along the shore or squeezes his knee in reassurance. More often than not, he ends up wrapping his fingers around his own. Patroclus is not used to such casual touches but Achilles is shameless in his actions, never misses a chance to bring them into contact. Who is he to complain?

The spots he has touched tingle with warmth for days to come.

It is on one of these nights, their fingers laced together, that he wonders how he ever spent a single day without the other in his life. Though their conversation is not always filled with joy and laughter, his troubles somehow appear lighter in Achilles' presence, and judging from the looks he casts him, it's a mutual sensation. Time and time again, they offer each other a moment of peace amid the chaos.

Not in his wildest dreams could he have imagined things to turn out this way. Had someone told him he would find himself hand in hand, cheek to cheek with this man sculpted from gold, he would have laughed at them and rolled his eyes.

His newfound reality feels like one of the stories his mother used to tell him and sometimes it almost seems too good to be true. Any moment now, he thinks, he will wake up, the dream shattered and gone forever. Then Achilles squeezes his hand and he knows it is real.

In the middle of the war something managed to grow between them, and though fragile like a young sapling in spring, he knows that it has the potential to take root.

„Do you ever wonder?“ he asks, turning his head towards the other.

„Wonder what?“

Achilles' eyes remain fixed on the night sky, features relaxed. The small line of worry that sometimes appears between his brows is smooth tonight, and his lips are curved into the hint of a smile. Patroclus is sure there is not a more beautiful sight to be found in the world.

„Why we met. Of all the people who could have been roaming the beach that night ... it was you and me.“

It's not the first time he has wondered about it, asked himself whether their meeting was one of mere chance or – and his heart flutters inside his chest at the thought – a strange twist of fate.

The gods are cruel like that, he thinks wistfully, sharing only fragments of their knowledge even when a lifetime is concerned. Achilles has told him many things about the prophecy, but surely not even he knows every detail of it. He barely dares to hope that somewhere, between the lines speaking of the other's glorious deeds and tragic end, his own name is written.

"I'm glad it was you," Achilles pulls him from his thoughts, releasing his hand in order to turn onto his side. "Whatever led you to me that night, I'm not going to question it."

Warmth blossoms inside Patroclus' chest at the words and he has to remind himself to breathe evenly. For what must be the hundredth time that night, his gaze flickers towards the other man's lips, soft and inviting and oh so close. Yet every time he feels like giving in to the temptation, he stops himself.

The touches, the gentle whispers against his ear, it's simply who Achilles is, not used to thinking before acting. As a prince, the other never had to ask permission; as the son of a goddess, he never had to fear rejection; as the Greek army's best fighter, he does not need to worry about possible repercussions.

Patroclus knows that, no matter what his heart longs for, he can't allow himself to read too much into it. At the same time, he wonders whether that same foolish organ was just waiting for this man to finally awaken it.

"I'm glad, too.”

The sound of their breathing mixes with the gentle rushing of the waves. Once more no words are needed, every single one of Patroclus' emotions laid open on his face. The way Achilles studies him with an unreadable expression, he is almost sure can read his mind.

“Yeah?”

There is a strange kind of tension lingering in the air between them, one that makes Patroclus' skin prickle. It's like the moment of calm before a storm, somehow tangible and indescribable at once.

A low roll of thunder sounds inside his chest and he counts.

1 … 2 … 3 … 4 ...

Lightning comes in the form of lips crashing against his own.

Their movements are feverish, yet at the same time he feels as though the whole world has come to a halt in their favor. All he can see, taste, feel is the other; the sensation too much and not enough all the same.

Forgotten is the war as the other's lashes tickle his cheeks like the wings of a butterfly. Forgotten all his secrets and worries as his hand comes up to cup Achilles' neck. None of it matters, not in this moment that is theirs alone.

His fingers grasp at the air.

Where there was warmth just a second ago, now there is nothing but the cool breeze coming from the sea. In place of Achilles, there is only emptiness. All he can do is sit and watch as the other disappears in the distance, his feet making no sound as they hit the earth.

Inside his chest, lightning and thunder turn into an outpour of rain.

[disorder-alice]

Patrochilles Week Day 1 - Music

@patrochillesweek​ 2021

L'oscurità all'interno della tenda era un'illusione. Non era che l'idea di oscurità. La tenua luce esterna, doveva essere circa il crepuscolo, filtrava attraverso il tessuto gettando ombre morbide sui tappeti, sull'acqua immobile nel catino lasciato da parte, sul groviglio di coperte in cui riposava l'aristos achaion. Capelli biondi e pelle scottata dal sole lì dove non era protetta dall'armatura durante il giorno. Achille non ricordava di essersi addormentato, ma a quanto sembrava Morfeo lo aveva accolto tra le sue braccia, e anche per un bel po'. Passò una mano sul suo viso per liberare gli occhi ancora assonnati dai capelli, in modo da avere una visuale migliore dell'ambiente che lo circondava. La tenda era vuota e silenziosa. Istintivamente si tirò su a sedere e allungò una mano accanto a lui. L'altro lato del giaciglio era vuoto e freddo. - Patroclo? - La sua voce si disperse nello spazio, priva di risposta. Il giovane doveva aver lasciato la tenda da un po', probabilmente per permettergli di riposare adeguatamente.  Achille si alzò lentamente in piedi, sistemando la stoffa bianca del chitone che era scivolata dalla spalla. Solo a quel punto iniziò a rendersi conto dei suoni provenienti dall'esterno. Risate sommesse, e la “voce” cristallina di un aulos, che ad un ascolto più attento scoprì essere accompagnato da cimbali, tamburi e da una lira. Sorpreso e ancora intorpidito dal sonno, lasciò l'interno della tenda. Solo dopo aver avvertito la consistenza dell'erba sotto i piedi si rese conto di  non aver indossato i sandali. Poco male. L'operazione avrebbe richiesto troppo tempo, e la curiosità di scoprire da dove venisse la musica rendeva i suoi passi veloci e impazienti. Si incamminò tra le altre tende stranamente immobili e silenziose. Nessun altro sembrava essere sveglio a parte lui, ma non vi diede più di tanto peso. Bastarono pochi metri per raggiungere la fonte della musica. In una radura poco distante dal cuore dell'accampamento, era stato acceso un falò. La luce dorata e crepitante delle fiamme faceva apparire quel piccolo spazio come una bolla, qualcosa di completamente astratto dalla realtà. In quello spazio onirico si muovevano come figure all'interno di un quadro, nove fanciulle. Cinque di loro erano intente a suonare, altre tre danzavano in circolo. Le loro voci cristalline si levavano verso l'alto, leggere come il fumo che si levava dal falò. La prima impressione di Achille fu quella di ritrovarsi improvvisamente e inspiegabilmente al cospetto delle Muse. Lentamente, mentre si avvicinava, riconobbe però i volti delle fanciulle che risiedevano nell'accampamento. Una di loro si fece avanti per scortarlo oltre le fiamme,che nascondevano come un paravento altre due figure. Lì, seduto su un tronco coperto di muschio e abbigliato con una veste dello stesso colore delle fiamme, finalmente lo vide. Briseide stava intrecciando dei fiori candidi tra i suoi capelli scuri, con aria serena e concentrata. - Patroclo - Il viso del giovane si sollevò all'istantte, e su di esso comparve il più dolce dei sorrisi. Con calma, si alzò per raggiungere Achille. - Ti stavo aspettando. - Sollevò le braccia per incoronare l'Aristos Achaion di foglie e fiori vermigli, poi le sue mani sfiorarono le guance dell'amante. - Achille - Il biondo posò immediatamente le mani su quelle dell'altro, beandosi pienamente di quel contatto. Chiuse gli occhi e si lasciò guidare da Patroclo, che silenziosamente lo invitò a danzare con lui attorno al fuoco. La sensazione di trovarsi in un luogo estraneo al tempo era costante, ma in quel momento l'unica cosa importante era l'attimo presente. Le ombre e le luci sul viso e sulla pelle di Patroclo, il tocco leggero delle sue dita quando le loro mani si sfioravano durante la danza. Quando le giovani furono stanche di suonare, Achille si offrì di prendere in mano la lira. Per qualche istante tutto tacque, mentre lui prendeva posto sul tronco, Patroclo appoggiato contro la sua schiena, le loro guance che si sfioravano. Briseide e le altre si accomodarono attorno a loro, rapite dalle note che scaturivano dalledita del giovane. Di tanto in tanto qualcuna di loro accompagnava la musica con la voce, un canto cristallino, senza parole. Achille non seppe dire per quanto tempo rimase fermo a suonare. Si interruppe solo nel momento in cui Patroclo gli prese gentilmente le mani tra le sue e dopo aver baciato ogni singolo dito, lo tirò leggermente per invitarlo ad alzarsi. Insieme ripercorsero la strada al contrario, fino alla loro tenda. Achille accolse con gioia il peso del corpo del compagno sul suo, una volta stesi sul giaciglio. La sua pelle era calda, quasi un eco delle fiamme. Il viso di Patroclo sospeso sul suo, le punte dei nasi che si sfioravano. Il respiro dell'uno era quello dell'altro. - Achille - Achille non ricordava di essersi addormentato, ma fu estremamente felice di incontrare gli occhi profondi di Patroclo non appena aprì i suoi. - Stavi sognando qualcosa di molto bello - Constatò il giovane, spostandosi su un fianco e tirando appena il biondo per poter continuare a guardarlo negli occhi. Achille studiò per un istante il volto di Patroclo, e intravide nei suoi occhi il riflesso del fuoco. Annuì. - Stavo sognando quanto ho di più bello e prezioso al mondo. - Dalle sue labbra, prima di schiudersi contro quelle del compagno, vennero fuori poche sillabe. - Pa tro clo. -