It was a glorious morning. It had to be.
Achilles couldn’t quite know for sure, at least at first. He kept his eyes closed as he awoke, blocking out the sun, but the sounds of the sea were mild, the breeze sweet, and he got to listen to Patroclus pitter-patter around their room. Achilles didn’t need to open his eyes to see what he was doing.
Splash of water? He was washing his face.
A dull thud on the ground? Patroclus was discarding his nightgown.
A hushed silence, a change of breathing, and the sound of cloth unfolding? Patroclus was putting on his special tunic.
“The festival for Poseidon is not until tomorrow,” said Achilles. He kept his eyes closed. Patroclus couldn’t go. Achilles had <em>plans</em>.
“Yes, but Priest needs the help. Sweeping and such.”
If he was putting on his tunic he was planning on being there all day.
“Do you need your white tunic for sweeping?”
“I will be in the house of a god; it is nice to look nice.”
Achilles sighed. It was pointless to argue. Patroclus had never been particularly pious, but he was proper, determined to be everything the son of a king should be, even though he was exiled and would never be king himself. And in their lands proper sons and daughters of kings and nobles served the gods like their own people served them. Achilles himself had swept the floors of a temple, chased out small animals, and even once cleaned the pen for sacrificial animals, albeit in the house of Zeus and not Poseidon.
(Years earlier, Achilles had been miffed to see Patroclus drifting towards focusing on a different god than the one his father chose for himself—if they both went to Zeus they could spend more time together—but Achilles decided that Patroclus just liked horses that much. Later, when Patroclus became the chief attendant among the boys, something that would never happen if he served alongside Achilles, he understood.)
Metal clanged on the table as Patroclus stripped off his jewelry. There was a quiet gap in the noise as he took off his necklace. Attendants were to be unadorned except for their youthfulness, as Achilles’s father said, but Patroclus loved jewelry and that was always the last thing off of him. He was almost ready to leave.
The bed sagged as Patroclus sat down, turning Achilles face up towards his. He started playing with Achilles’s hair, blond and straight and so unlike his own. Achilles kept his eyes shut.
“I used to dream about this,” he said.
“Touching you,” Patroclus responded before stopping, embarrassed. Achilles laughed at the implication but understood. How often had he wanted to sit flush against Patroclus, hold his hand, play with his hair? Achilles had desired Patroclus, deeply, especially as Patroclus did fool around with boys his age where Achilles could hear him, but since consummating their relationship he had enjoyed the physical intimacy that never quite turned sexual.
“I mean—“ said Patroclus, “just being able to play with your hair or take your head into my hands or—“
“I knew what you meant,” said Achilles, opening his eyes as if to emphasize that he briefly got the better of Patroclus.
That was a mistake. They had been back at Phthia and away from Pelion for some months now, and, as much as they both missed their centaur teacher and his wild home, civilization definitely agreed with Patroclus. His hair had recently been cut and Achilles had noticed his dark curls were more even and shiny, as was Patroclus’s skin. Regular meals they didn’t have to catch or grow themselves had put on a layer of softness across his flesh. And, while he had foregone kohl that day, Achilles still saw evidence of careful grooming that was never possible on Pelion; Patroclus’s brows were neat and well-shaped, his nails buffed and without breakage, and his hands and feet scrubbed of most of their callouses.
And of course there was the softness from being in the heated baths every day, letting his pores open up before slathering on lotion and oils. A cold stream could not compare. Patroclus had only splashed his face that morning, but he was still clean from the night before.
“You do look nice,” Achilles said.
“See,” said Patroclus before swooping down to give him a light kiss.
And then he was up and the bed felt emptier than ever.
“Stay for a bit,” said Achilles. As much as he loved non-sexual intimacy, he suddenly wanted quite a bit more than that.
Patroclus was gathering a few small things into a bag. He paused for a moment on bringing a hairbrush.
“And fool around with me,” Achilles answered.
Patroclus stopped, flustered. He was now holding a hat, and began fiddling with its strings, when he responded “you would have me do that before I visit a god? After I’ve abstained from meat, made my ablutions, and am all ready to go?”
“Yes, absolutely.” Achilles sat up, looking at Patroclus with interest. “Is that a joke?”
“No,” Patroclus said, a familiar line appearing between his eyes. He had that searching look that could only mean one thing.
“Is that not a normal thing to think?” Achilles asked.
“Not quite,” Patroclus said kindly. “It seems like something some people might get off on, but few mortals would dare say it and even fewer dare do it. It seems almost akin to defilement.”
<em>Few mortals.</em> Achilles was indeed like few mortals and every once in a while something like this happened to remind him of that. He suspected it was the godliness in him and that this kind of thinking might be more appropriate for an Olympian, but it seemed so normal to want a piece of Patroclus for himself when he spent so long getting ready to be in the house of another.
“You just look so nice, is all.”
Patroclus shrugged and fastened his hat, taking one last look in the mirror before turning to leave.
“Poseidon isn’t your rival.”
Achilles burrowed back under his blankets. The god certainly felt like one and Achilles had a sinking feeling the god might agree.
