#xheroicus

[xpatroklos]

'if found angry please return to patroclus'

no actually u can keep him

[xpatroklos]

patroclus, getting back in at four o'clock in the morning, has elected to just sleep on the couch for simplicity; he's been working longer hours recently and he knows he doesn't want to wake achilles up every time he's over.  it's hardly his first time sleeping on his own couch, but, as always, it is slightly too short for him, resulting in his feeling like he's going to die when he has to stand up to turn off the alarm clock in his bedroom that he'd entirely forgotten about.

probably his back is done for anyway.  he's getting old, sort of.  older than he's been before, anyway.

the moment the alarm is off, he turns to leave the room again, ruing the morning just as he does most days.  (all days.)

[xpatroklos]

ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀʀᴛɪᴄᴜʟᴀᴛᴇ;;

a-i.

achilles is fifteen and knows exactly how pretty he is, or rather how pretty patroclus thinks he is, and has been shamelessly using it against him for months.  not that he actually needs to shamelessly use it against him when they're wrestling, even if patroclus closes the gap slightly more in this sport than in any other--regardless of how pretty achilles was he would find himself here, back to the sand and pinned thoroughly.

after he's been down a moment, he pulls up on achilles' grip, thinking it'll actually give, then gives up and says, since achilles has that look on his face that tells him it's the right thing to say, "what do i have to do to get you to let me up?"  the smile he gets is blinding.

"kiss me," is the answer, so cocky patroclus might roll his eyes if he weren't so busy trying to figure out why he can't properly breathe.  he's guessing shock is the answer to that, but it's still keeping him from responding like a normal person.  finally, he manages to push his words past the surprise gathering in his throat.

"you're going to have to let me up for that," he says, and isn't even sort of surprised when achilles doesn't do that, leans down instead.  and he hopes that achilles isn't surprised, either, when patroclus does kiss him.  on the ear.  then smiles, whispers. "will you let me up now?" and is once again unsurprised when achilles shoves him down harder into the sand and runs off down the beach like his irritation is chasing him.

if it catches up patroclus is never any the wiser.

b-i.

achilles' hair is shorter in this life, and his shoulders are substantially broader, his body squarer.  patroclus is taller, thinner, more neatly-cut.  and he kisses achilles on the mouth first this time, a plea for reconciliation, but when achilles asks him again, "kiss me," he flashes a brief and uncharacteristic smile and presses his second kiss against the corner of his mouth because he knows exactly what achilles wants, and this is not it.

"your ability to aim," achilles tells him, "seems to have disappeared."  and he must be feeling affectionate, because he finishes it with "darling."

patroclus kisses him on the chin next.  when he complains again, patroclus kisses him on the nose with the air of a man who is enjoying signing his own death warrant.  and clearly achilles still does not appreciate that patroclus is being horribly sentimental, because instead of recreating the scene and deserting him, he shoves him back onto the couch and kisses him properly.

(so maybe patroclus doesn't exactly mind that they aren't recreating the scene.  he topples achilles to the floor and enjoys watching him chase his irritation away for a change in the split-second before he's got his back to the floor once more and is being kissed again.)

he supposes you don't really get a do-over on your first kiss.

(and besides, why would you want to?)

a-ii.

achilles is still wearing his dress, and patroclus finds him, because unless there's a goddess involved, there's not a force on earth that could stop him from locating achilles in any given arena.  he catches sight of the hair first, gold longer than it's ever been before, falling over the shoulder of a figure on the ledge of the window.  walking over, he leans backwards against the wall and slides down to the ground to sit there, looking up at achilles.  really, it's what he does best.

"patroclus."

he doesn't smile, but it's a close thing.  "perhaps someone should have taught you to be greedier."

"perhaps someone should have taught me to be less valuable in a fight."

"arrogant," patroclus tells him, but it's fond.

"of course," achilles replies, and leans down to kiss him, a gesture which is slated to fall at his lips, but instead lands on his forehead as odysseus turns the corner into their eyeline.

"together, of course."

"he is my hetaíros."

odysseus' return glance says, explicitly, that they're not as subtle as achilles thinks they are.  patroclus, for one, is not surprised, but he feels somewhat invincible with rouge emblazoned on his forehead, so he just stands in respect as the kings draw closer.

b-ii.

their phones beep almost simultaneously, both of them looking apart and down, pulling hands off the table where they'd only barely not been touching to grab for the alarm.

"i've got to run," achilles says first, and patroclus nods, sighs, and they rise in unison, mirrored.

"check," he calls, and the waiter slips over, shorter than both of them by easily six inches.

"do you want the food to go?"

"the food hasn't arrived yet and we've got to go," achilles tells him shortly, coming out from behind the table, tossing money onto it.  too much for just wine, but achilles has never cared.

"thank you," patroclus adds, as he slots into place behind achilles, moving down the aisle after him.  at the door, achilles stops dead, turns on his heel, and pulls patroclus in by the back of the neck, drawing a kiss into his forehead.

they part ways and patroclus doesn't feel invincible this time.  but the waiter's smirk feels a bit like approbation.

a-iii.

steel has two sorts of singing.  the first: the sound it makes when it's striking other steel; the second: when you clean and sharpen it.  the second sort is much quieter and not always the work of the soldier himself.  sometimes it's the work of someone with more time and less ego.

achilles, for all his ego, cleans his sword himself.  if he's even used his sword that day, an auxiliary weapon for good soldiers.  which, if ever there was one, achilles would be.

patroclus sweeps into the tent as the sky begins to darken, later than usual, throws his cloak across the sleeping pallet and drops to his knees behind him where he sits in the sand, throws an arm around his shoulders and pulls him backwards, leaning down to press a kiss against the corner of his jaw.

"long day?" achilles asks him mildly, and drops his head back against patroclus' collarbone, a light grin on his face.

patroclus draws another kiss into his neck instead of answering.

b-iii.

four floors seems substantially longer when you're walking them up a tiny cement flight of stairs after a long day of mostly standing up in a very confined space.  patroclus would be ashamed if this were still the life where he spent all day, most days, for ten years, fighting on his feet all day, but this is the life where he works fourteen-hour shifts most days with very little sleep and he just wants to be home.

he thinks if achilles isn't here tonight it will be his sign to buy a dog.

but when he hip-checks open the door, achilles is there, sitting on the couch with one of his books, flipping idly through it, and for a moment he's helpless to do anything but smile as the square chin comes up and the corner of the perfect mouth curves upwards, and he figures that, for someone who doesn't smile much, that's significant enough to merit a reward.  so he drops his bag at the door and leans over the back of the couch to kiss him.

"long day?"  achilles asks him, mildly, and drops his head back against the back of the couch to give him an easy grin.

patroclus answers him by slipping over the couch and half-into his lap.

a-iv.

they're both covered in blood and sweat and dirt, so achilles--as is his custom, thetis' boy that he is, drags drags patroclus down to the water and leads him in.  it's within full view of the myrmidons' camp and patroclus can tell he's antsy, so the moment he's in hip-deep he claps him on the shoulder and pushes him over.

of course, aristos achaion doesn't overbalance that easily.  instead he turns, two swift motions--one to rebalance himself and one to swat patroclus' hand aside.  then he slips down a little, one-footed in the water, and hooks patroclus' foot out from under him with an ankle.  he goes down hard into the water, only barely manages to take in a breath before he goes under, and figures, at this point, what does he have to lose?  his hands wrap around achilles' ankles and he pushes himself back to the surface, tugging upwards as he does so.

briefly, as he breaks the surface of the water, he catches the surprise on achilles' face as he disappears into the blue.

he lets go, and the moment after that, he loses achilles.  the water is cold from a storm the day before, and murky from the drift and sand swirling, and this was a terrible idea, because he is thetis' boy and patroclus is surrounded by a shark who could be anywhere.  for a good minute, he looks for movement, peers through the water, tightens his stance even though he knows he'd go down the moment achilles took him in hand, but somehow still fails to expect it when achilles rockets out of the water behind him, locks his arms around his shoulders, and yanks him backwards, kissing his shoulder at the instant he goes under, taking in a lungful of water as the men on the beach laugh.

the bruise on his neck later can probably be explained away as coming from a thumb.

b-iv.

patroclus owns exactly one pair of pants that could be considered appropriate to go on a date in, and they're too old to fit properly, and by the time he's climbed the four flights of stairs, following achilles, he thinks perhaps they've adhered at the seams to his skin, have integrated themselves into his body.  then again, the one nice thing about going on a date with achilles is that even if they do manage to get through it without one of them being called off, your pants are likely to be off at some point in the near future, so that they're uncomfortable isn't a very permanent problem.

but of course when they get through the door, kissing turns immediately into achilles shoving him down onto the couch, which isn't, in context of the situation, even sort of a fighting motion, but it ends (predictably) in patroclus rolling him onto the floor, in achilles pushing them over his head to disturb the downstairs neighbours, who tap the floor with a broom, loudly.

that doesn't really make them stop.  patroclus' back hits the floor for the fourth time thirty seconds later and his head whacks against the boards, dizzying him, and achilles kisses him right over his jugular, bruises him with his teeth and pulls his head up to say, casually, "you're dead."

"i blame the trousers," patroclus tells him, and achilles laughs until he's tackled again.

a-v.

patroclus lies on his back, eyes gently closed, skin shining pale and clean in the dim light from the open flap of the tent.  his hands sit relaxed by his side, one hanging over the edge of the pallet, mouth ever-so-slightly open in the way of sleepers who don't quite have full control over their bodies.  his chest rises and falls.

his lungs do not move.

achilles, sitting next to him, staring at the immobile face, shakes with rage and grief, a calmer affect about him than he had had only a few moments before, his rattling movements, a skeleton too small for its coffin, shaking patroclus into this semblance of life, a movement of his chest where his heart should beat.

his blood dries in his veins, the wound, ragged-edged in the centre of his chest, crawls open.  and achilles leans down, gaunt and tear-streaked, to press a kiss against his forehead, barely-gentle, begging with his lips where he wants to scream.

patroclus, like so many dead soldiers, does not rise, and achilles, thinking of hector, shows his teeth in a threat that mirrors a smile--a terrifying, broken thing, shatterglass tearing his face open.

b-v.

patroclus lies on his back, eyes gently closed, skin shining pale and clean in the dim light from the open flap of the tent.  his hands sit relaxed by his side, one hanging over the edge of the pallet, mouth ever-so-slightly open in the way of sleepers who don't quite have full control over their bodies.  his chest rises and falls.

 his lungs do not move--

achilles sits up in bed at his alarm, the movement so abrupt as to tip patroclus out of his loose embrace and onto his back, where he continues to sleep like the dead.  (an unfortunate choice of words.)

he breathes quietly, lying there almost-motionless, face lax and hair sticking up crazily against the pillow.  stubble coats his jaw, and achilles leans over to kiss him on the temple, feel his heartbeat pounding there.  a--reassurance.  patroclus stirs, reaches for him.

it's a nicer reaction than quiet stillness.  they smile in the same moment, even though patroclus' eyes remain closed.

[xpatroklos]

patroclus is being as patient as humanly possible since he knows achilles is high-strung today, since he has a front seat to it more than anyone else.  he has gotten up at an obscene hour of the morning because achilles was practically vibrating with the desire to do something.  he has obediently dragged himself through their usual paces.  this is his third time, currently, being cheerfully beaten into the mat.

and he means that quite literally, he's never expected achilles to hold back on him, but he's very, very tired of blocking attacks because he knows where they'll fall only to have achilles power right through his block because he's possibly exponentially stronger.

he is doing everything right and he isn't frustrated.  really, he isn't.  but there's blood on his lip and a bruise forming across his lower back and he's been burned by the mat in almost every area that counts, is sore and sweaty and not irritated, really, he isn't, but his endless patience is wearing just somewhat thin.  because achilles can beat the tar out of him some time when he isn't going to have to suit up and get into an actual jaeger and ignore the bruises.  he will gladly put up with achilles rendering him unable to move, breathe, or walk properly with anything he cares to bring into the ring some other day.  he will enjoy it, some other day.  but today is important and patroclus does not feel like trying to walk off the limp he will surely accrue if they keep going.

he picks himself up off the mat for the third time, rolls his shoulders, turns his back and walks towards the edge of the map.  he knows achilles isn't the type to strike while it's turned.

     ❝ knowing when you're about to hit me doesn't provide me with the physical ability to actually stop your strike, achilles. ❞

witness his incredibly useful ability to sound mild even after a day of being as long-suffering as he has had to be today.

[xpatroklos]

[ OKAY YOU GORGEOUS THINGS

i'm going to be on vacation for two weeks which means that i will be short on replies and stuff although i may be able to get on (my formatting might be shitty tho)

HOWEVER

i wrote a drabble in 22 parts which will be coming out on queue over the next two weeks.  if you don't want to see it, blacklist #[ major arcana ]

i'm going to tag tara in this because she's gone and i wrote the drabble for her

here is my personal you may catch me there sometimes ]

[xpatroklos]

patroclus is--for someone who is legitimately quiet and mostly introverted--astonishingly bad at watching his mouth.  it's not that he's rude--really he isn't rude, he knows how to be polite, at least.  it's just that.  his internal monologue runs on a permanent setting of 'snarky' and he's young, sometimes it slips out of his mouth.

not to mention that he's apparently got a really strong drive to be a dick to people who are dicks to people who don't deserve it.  usually he curves this drive out of a sense of self-preservation.

   ❝ if you wanted a date, not messing with her current boyfriend might have helped. ❞

he knows it's a stupid thing to say as soon as he says it, especially since he wasn't even included in the conversation, just nearby, and he knows it again when three sets of swim-team-jock eyes turn on him in his ratty jeans and his hand-me-down shirt and look venomous.

kind of weird how he doesn't even dread it anymore, there's no sinking feeling, he just wants to sigh for his own stupidity.  one day he'll learn to hold his tongue.

(it's not that he's picked on so often he's used to it, not exactly.  he just--gets used to thinks like that really fast.  and hey, what can they do?)

                                                                         ...

what they can do is evidently the nearby pool, and patroclus remains an idiot.  they put their arms around his waist in the hallway like they were friends to steer him away, and he didn't bother to struggle.  and now they are entering the echoing, chlorinated area that he is not really down with entering fully clothed, and he realizes that struggling would have been a great thing to do earlier, because now he is sliding on the tiles.

he is not the fondest of the pool.  the ocean, he's never minded, oddly enough, but the pool?  well, he isn't an amazing swimmer at the best of times, though he can float, and they are dragging him towards the deep end.  why can't he keep his mouth shut?

   ❝ were your fists deficient today, ❞   he says, trying to let his smart mouth do him some good for once and bely his panic, but it doesn't really work, because no one asks to be punched without meaning it.  he manages to struggle enough to drop his bag, at least, which is a weight off his shoulders, both literally and figuratively.  if his arms were free he could do better, but they aren't and he is such an idiot, what the hell.

he's going to die if he walks into his house soaking wet and smelling like he's been dumped in a pool.

he's too proud to beg, but he's not too proud to look scared.

(he's not scared of the pool.)

((he gets thrown in anyway.))

and then they're stripping off, because swim team practice is going to be a thing when school ends?  which is soon, so they haven't got much time to harass him, which is nice.  sort of.  he's trying to look on the bright side here.  unfortunately, they seem to be dedicated enough to get in with him.  he hopes they get caught skipping like they're doing now, some day.

he swims for the edge.  better chance on land.  then one of them throws his bag in.

he sort of wants to just get it over with at this point.

[amauros]

                "How are you fairing, Achilles?" 

[thereisstillme]

      ' you're a little far from home. '

   she's decidedly human, mortal flesh and bone and all. but that doesn't mean she's graceless. and it doesn't mean she's forgotten who he is. stationed on earth as humanity's guard for a solid, silent two thousand years, the remnant slithers of divinity in her recognise him, the grecian hero ; she bids herself remember all souls, after all.

            ' achilles, right ? '