@achillespelides
For the past week, all he had heard about was the Phthian prince. His father had heard great things about him, apparently. Heard that he was charismatic and loved by his people, that he was strong, brave, that he was talented, and so much more. Menoetius had not even met the young prince and he already liked him better than his own son.
Patroclus had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that Achilles would be disappointing in person. His reputation was so spotless that it seemed impossible that he could really be all that. He was desperate for his father to find a reason to dislike him, just as he never ran out of reasons for his own son. Though, he knew it was foolish. His father would often point out other boys and ask, “Why can’t you be more like him?”
The day Achilles arrived, Patroclus stood at his father’s side, lips pursed together. He already hated the man and he hadn’t even met him. When he entered, he wasn’t sure what he felt. His blond hair was long and smooth, his skin looked soft, he had a twinkle in his eyes and just the way he walked seemed somehow fluid and dance-like. Patroclus stared at him, saying nothing as his father gave his own greetings. He was dumbfounded and while he could not claim the prince wasn’t beautiful, he certainly hated him even more for it.
“Oh, this is my son. Patroclus.” The king added after already making acquaintance. He was an afterthought. “Perhaps you can show him to his room?” Menoetius asked, looking towards his son now. He just knew what he was thinking, hoping Achilles splendor would somehow rub off on him if he spent more time around him. He’d outgrown pettishness, though. So he nodded.
“Of course.”
















