#patrxklos

Achilles responds with nothing but a series of grumbled, slurred Greek expletives, words he had only heard from the lowest glasses within his father’s palace, muttered into Patroclus’ throat. With the opposite hand not grasping his glass, he holds firmly onto his friend, lest he fall over.

     “ S’not my fault, it would not tickle         if you did not squirm. ”

Achilles asked his birthday once as a child, and never forgot it. Each year, he makes sure he gives notice to the day, produces a small celebration. In the later years, the celebration mostly limited itself to their bed. He chu- ckles softly as he smooths down Patroclus’ curls with both hands, pressing kisses against his head.

What a beautiful boy you have, they would say to his father, with such unusual golden curls. Occupants of the palace, men and women alike, all seemed to have noticed. They flit around him, acceptable women trying to catch his eye so that they may become the mistress of the wonderful palace.

But when Achilles looks into the mirror, he sees only himself. Achilles. No more, no less. He sees a nerve of growing potential and greatness, waiting to burst. But still, just a boy in a mirror.

He shifts and turns his jaw slightly in the mirror, Patroclus’ reflection in the corner of his eye.

     “ Outward. The other curls point inward. ”

Indeed, Achilles has spent many a joyful and incredibly productive hour studying Patroclus’ hair. The texture, the scent, the way each curl wraps around his fingers, as though the very locks desire and cling to him as much as their owner.

He attempts to look very nonchalant as he returns to their quarters in Chiron’s cave, though he’s sure Patroclus will make the biggest fuss.

He’s not sure why it still startles him, when Achilles crashes into his bedroom, but still, the pre med student jumps, his notes scattering across his desk. With a groan, Patroclus turns to blink sleepy eyes at his boyfriend; he’d been studying all morning, despite the beautiful weather. “I have to study,” he replies weakly, knowing that he’ll end up at the carnival one way or another.

     Achilles takes a second to drink in the sight of a Patroclus that had been in mid-study. He’s used to it, of course -- God knows this isn’t the first time he’s interrupted this oh so sacred moment -- but he never gets tired of the messy hair, the momentarily confused crinkle of his forehead, the way he rubs his eyes to wake himself up. 

     He crosses to the desk and fixes some of Patroclus’ strewn notes apologetically, but his voice still betrays his anticipation: ❝ You already know the material. I know you know, because you’ve been studying this stuff for days already and there’s nothing you don’t know yet. ❞