philtatos
achilles runs through the clearing. he is faster than the wind. he hardly hears his own feet, such is his speed. he turns sharply to the left - the movement would knocked anyone else clean off the ground - and leaps through the air, landing like a droplet.
god-child.
gods-blessed.
almost a god himself.
almost. the word stings achilles like a thorn. it bites harder when his mother says it, over and over again.
"my achilles, you are almost there."
"my son, they almost approve."
"the war is almost here, after which they will see your prowess."
- and when she is particularly bitter -
"you are almost worthy"
achilles hates the word. he is done being almost. he wants divinity and he wants in now. he wants them to sing his name in the streets. he wants to see awe and respect etched on their faces.
achilles wants and he wants and he wants-
he is panting harsh now, more so from anger than fatigue. he collapses onto the grass, throat tight and searing, too deep in his despair to notice the footsteps approaching.
"tired, are we?"
achilles tips his head up to greet a smiling face and teasing voice. the only person who dares tease him. the only person who will smile at him like this, like he is all that is bright and beautiful and worthy. with him, achilles is not almost. he is already there.
with him, he is at peace, and his wanting heart is still.
achilles remembers the day he first met the boy who now is the most important person to him, his therapon. in the halls of his father's palace. it seems ages ago now.
he remembers seeing the dark curls and haunted eyes of a boy who looked so frail but held his head high in defiance. no one had dared defy achilles before, and so getting the mysterious boy's attention became his personal mission. he remembered the fluttering delight he'd felt upon first hearing the boy's name :-
pat-ro-clus.
three syllables, just three, form the most beautiful sound achilles has ever heard. they fall from his mouth like dripping dew, and achilles will never tire of saying them.
he is saying something, pointing out at the sky. his words pass through achilles' ears but do not register.
what does register is this:
hair like freshly tilled soil.
eyes like sunlight on redwood bark.
a feeling, warm and fuzzy and sweet and dark, that hovers in the air between them and seeps into achilles' skin.
"you're not listening to me," the boy in question complains, and achilles is shaken back to the land of living.
"i am," he protests, and patroclus raises an elegant brow. there is a bead of sweat there, and achilles wants to lick it off.
"alright then, what was i saying just now?" patroclus challenges, and achilles blushes. he opens his mouth, but does not have words.
this seems to delight his companion, who laughs loudly, head tipped towards the sky. the sound shakes achilles to his very bones, and almost as if in tandem, his heart - his wanting, aching heart- strikes up a tune.
it is not the familiar call for glory, not the lament of a son wanting approval.
it is a tune achilles knows as well as himself, yet utterly different. the innocent rhyme of childhood friendship turned on its head, made sweet and dark and intense.
a song that began with the fan of patroclus's lashes over his cheeks, that wove through the dark tangles of his hair and the way they fell over this face, the way the bare strip of skin on his waist that flashed as he raised his arms made achilles cold all over even as heat rose to his face.
a syncopation of friends turned something more.
an orchestra of three syllables -
pat-ro-clus
phil-ta-tos
Tib-eri-us
@ty-the-king-of-thorns
