Chapter Text
Patroclus worked two jobs to get himself through school, one of which being a fast food job he swore to quit the very second he graduated the next year.
It was everything he hated: pretending to be friendly to rude entitled customers, uncomfortable and ridiculous uniforms, and the constant stench of grease and cooking meat. Patroclus felt he still smelled like French fries even when he got home and scrubbed himself thoroughly in the shower. But it paid for some of his tuition and there was some free food in the mix, so beggars couldn't really be choosers.
The second job was as a tutor at his college.
He'd been a top student in all of his science and math classes, and it earned him a part time position helping other students struggling in his footsteps. Patroclus only had a few time slots open a week in what spare time he had between losing years of his life manning a cash register and pouring all his brain power into class work. One student in particular always showed up on his agenda, to the point where Patroclus grew fond of him and they exchanged contact information.
Achilles, a freshman with an undecided major but enough ambition and charisma to fit into any career path he would eventually choose.
Patroclus smiles at the thought as he goes over Achilles' homework before their session, noticing the wrong marks from his professor and trying to work backwards to see where exactly he'd gone wrong. Statistics wasn't the class for everyone, and especially not for Achilles. Not when his mind was left in track practice. He'd first showed up on Patroclus' schedule the second week of school after failing his first assignment, and they'd been meeting regularly since.
Although… Patroclus liked to think they weren't just mentor and pupil. He had Achilles' name in his contacts as Favorite Statistics Failure with little sparkle and heart emojis next to his name (that was all Achilles' fault, of course- he had the strangest sense of humor) and ate lunch with him almost every day. Achilles liked to boast about his wins during meets while gesturing wildly, and Patroclus enjoyed sitting with his knees hugged to his chest as he listened. They'd run into each other a little too often to be coincidence, and Patroclus couldn't help but wonder if Achilles somehow knew his schedule after they'd hung out so many times on campus.
One time Patroclus had told Achilles he didn't need to formally set up tutoring anymore- not when they saw each other all the time, but Achilles laughed it off and said he would rather Patroclus be paid by the school to help him study. That he saw Patroclus as a friend, but Achilles wanted Patroclus to earn money mentoring him rather than spend what tiny bit of time he had to himself assisting Patroclus.
It was the middle of the semester before Patroclus realized he was falling hard for his peer.
Patroclus frowns and sets aside Achilles' homework for now. Deciphering his handwriting was a futile effort, and Patroclus' mind was wandering. His focus had wavered as soon as he saw the stars Achilles scribbled on the borders of his paper. He hadn't been able to help but wonder if his friend stuck his tongue out in concentration when he did it, similar to when he was focusing hard on a particular problem. And any remaining possibility of getting work done had flown out the window when Patroclus caught sight of his own name written in a cleaner version of Achilles' handwriting than usual.
Patroclus. He flushes, eyes following the curves of his own name. Patroclus had always thought it was a mouthful, but Achilles made it into something different. Something to be revered. It's written multiple times in slightly different fonts, from normal script to shaky cursive. Patroclus Patroclus Patroclus.
He stands up abruptly, the chair under him screeching in protest as its legs scrape the floor. Patroclus felt searing hot from his face to his stomach. He reaches up to gingerly touch his cheek, sighing helplessly when its warmth is confirmed under his fingertips.
Yes, Patroclus was hopeless. He had known much earlier than when he'd finally given into his feelings. There had been that fluttering anxiety in his stomach when their eyes locked, the overwhelming joy Patroclus felt when Achilles solved a problem that he never experienced with anyone else. Achilles would gaze off and people watch during their shared lunch, and Patroclus would watch him with unmasked adoration. He was a beautiful person inside and out. Perfect golden curls, a wide white grin, so much compassion and an unending joy for life. Achilles was everything Patroclus could ever want and more.
Defeatedly, Patroclus crosses his room and slumps onto his bed. He had been having a harder time preparing for tutoring sessions recently. Just seeing Achilles' silly doodles and boyish handwriting made him want to bury his face in his hands. Really, Patroclus would have to do something soon or this man would be the death of him
His stomach churns with fear: fear of loving someone, fear of being rejected, fear of not knowing what comes next. Achilles was predictable, but it was impossible for Patroclus to know how he'd handle being confessed to by a friend. Did Achilles even like guys? Would he want to hang out with Patroclus if he didn't feel the same way?
Did he feel the same way? Did Achilles notice the sparks when their arms grazed against each other in line at the cafeteria? Did he feel a shiver up his spine when Patroclus leaned in to whisper something in his ear in the quiet library? Patroclus cannot imagine he doesn't, for there isn't any way the things he experiences are only in his heart. If they were, surely he would have exploded by now.
But there's that doubt, the one that makes Patroclus roll onto his back and gaze at the ceiling with his mind fixated on his friend. He'd spent many nights in the same position, unable to sleep and so desperately wishing his mattress was weighed down by another. Did Achilles sleep on his stomach? His side? Would he hold Patroclus close while they rested together?
If Patroclus just closes his eyes… if he puts a hand on his chest and slows his breathing, he can imagine it's Achilles touching him and not himself. With enough focus, those sparkling green eyes are within view and glinting with their usual mischief. Achilles would like to tease. He'd slide his hand up Patroclus' chest, grazing his collarbone and cupping his neck gently before coming to rest on one cheek.
He'd be a caring lover, Patroclus had decided. Achilles was wild and untamable in everyday life, but alone with Patroclus he always slowed down and seemed to take things one step at a time. Nothing would be rushed. Patroclus inhales sharply as the Achilles in his mind strokes his face mindlessly. His fingers, long and calloused from throwing javelins in competition and plucking at guitar strings, would trace sweet paths from Patroclus' hairline to the corner of his mouth. Their journey is slow but worth it, as it ends with a thumb on Patroclus' lower lip and a mouth coming to join his own around the finger.
It had felt wrong at first to think of him like this, to let his mind drift and wish the hands trailing up his ribs were more than just Patroclus' imagination. But the more time they spent together, the more difficult it had been to dismiss the nagging at the back of his head when Patroclus pleasured himself. There was the lingering guilt, of course, but Patroclus tried to ignore it as best he could.
He exhales a soft puff of air against his thumb as his hand-Achilles' hand palms roughly at the front of his jeans. It starts with his palm grinding against Patroclus' crotch, but that could never possibly be enough. Patroclus whines and bucks his hips, and Achilles would decide that was enough teasing as his fingers curl around his bulge and squeeze gently.
The breath is knocked out of Patroclus. His back arches with desperation, and the Achilles in his head chuckles softly. Green eyes pierce through his own as the thumb on his lip dips into his mouth and runs along his tongue. There's no need for a spoken command, because his gaze says it all. Suck.
Patroclus obeys wordlessly, closing his eyes to escape the sharp twin jades fixated on him. Achilles is so dangerously beautiful in the same way the sun is overwhelming when looked at for too long. Even still, he can feel eyes watching him intently.
Achilles' fingers are deft and not meant to sit still: they're more often than not gracefully dancing across a computer keyboard or copying the notes of a song onto guitar strings. They nimbly unbutton and unzip Patroclus' jeans. His blissful imagination falters as Patroclus struggles to do it himself with one hand. It's a relief when his erection isn't constrained to tight pants any longer. Patroclus sighs in content, and he knows Achilles would laugh at that as well.
So needy, he'd say, voice full of adoration. Or perhaps he wouldn't tease Patroclus so. Maybe Achilles would murmur something fonder. You're perfect, Patroclus. He'd utter his name the way devoted followers praised their gods. Pa-tro-clus. Every syllable needing to be as distinct as the last.
Achilles pushes Patroclus' boxers under his balls and grips his cock in his hand. Patroclus chokes with unrestrained pleasure, writhing under his grasp. It burns when Achilles gives him a few languid strokes along his dry shaft. His slight discomfort makes Achilles' gaze twinkle with amusement. There's a thumb rubbing his head harshly, and Patroclus is about to cry out for mercy when Achilles relents. Because he'd always know how much Patroclus could take, and he'd tiptoe that line like a tightrope walker.
He's suave in this daydream, too. Achilles had already memorized everything in Patroclus' room from his frequent visits to study or laze around, so it would have taken no time to make note where he keeps lube in his bedside table. It's just at the back corner, hidden under some papers-
Patroclus' fingers graze something soft. His eyes shoot open in realization. Just the day before, Achilles had left his sweatshirt draped over the back of Patroclus' desk chair. Patroclus had promised to give it back, and Achilles laughed and admitted he didn't even notice he'd forgotten to take it home. So now it sat neatly folded at the bottom of his drawer.
Surely it wouldn't be a crime to just… have it nearby?
He grips the soft cotton and pulls it out of the drawer and close to his face. Patroclus leans his nose into it and inhales. It smells like him. Like sharp cologne and the outside and everything warm and bright. His dick twitches in his hand in excitement.
Patroclus hurriedly puts the sweatshirt on and pulls the collar over his nose. When his eyes shut again, the image of Achilles hovering over him is clearer than ever.
I didn't know you could be so filthy,, he chides with a sideways smile.
"Only for you," Patroclus whispers. "Everything is for you."The smile wavers, green eyes eclipsed by his blown-out pupils.
Achilles is a caring lover, yes, but an impatient one too. He spreads lube on his palm and takes just enough time to warm it to a more bearable temperature before his hand is around Patroclus' dick once more. His grip is bordering on a bit too tight. Achilles didn't know the extent of his strength, always knocking Patroclus over with a slap on the back or punching his arm playfully and consequently leaving bruises behind. Patroclus had to wear longer sleeves in fear Achilles would notice the marks and stop touching him.
Patroclus grits his teeth as Achilles begins to stroke him. It's painfully slow and almost uncomfortable with his rough hold on Patroclus' shaft, but Patroclus would sooner die than tell him to stop. His gut is tight with arousal that uncoils into a gentle warmth as Achilles pumps his dick.
He wants to look at Achilles, he really does, but Patroclus could never keep his eyes open as Achilles pleasures him. He's so far gone, and Achilles' quiet plea for Patroclus to look up at him is met with a low moan.
Try for me, Achilles breathes. Patroclus' eyes manage to flutter half-open, just enough to notice the dark blush staining Achilles' cheeks and his blond curls sticking to his forehead with sweat.
Patroclus inhales Achilles' scent deeply once more, and the Achilles in his mind tucks his face into Patroclus' neck. His lips graze his skin, and Achilles would pull the collar of his sweatshirt to the side to press sweet kisses to his exposed shoulder.
"Achilles," Patroclus says hoarsely.
Come for me, Patroclus, Achilles replies. It isn't a question to be debated. He's speeding up his hand, the wet slap of his enclosed fist the only sound in an otherwise quiet room. Patroclus feels searing heat spreading all over, but he doesn't want it to be over. Not yet. He whimpers as he tries to stave away his orgasm, hand fisted in the sweatshirt. His dick leaks down the head with the promise of release.
Achilles takes Patroclus' face in his hand and tilts it towards his own.
Now, Patroclus, he demands before smashing their lips together. His thumb presses meanly against Patroclus' slit, and Patroclus sobs miserably into his mouth as his orgasm rips through his body like an electric current. He's left gasping for air afterward, a sweaty sated mess.
"Shit," Patroclus groans, covering his face with his unsullied hand. He was in this a lot deeper than he originally thought.
…
"Are you thinking of a girl?"
Patroclus startles, his pen dropping from his hand. He turns to look at Achilles. His friend has his chin propped in one hand, and his green eyes glitter with curiosity. "What- no, I'm not."
Achilles huffs in disbelief. He's wearing his sweatshirt. Patroclus had given it back to him with the promise it had been washed. There was no need for that, Achilles had snorted, but little did he know… "My mates always have that same look on their face when they're daydreaming of girls," he says pointedly.
Really, they didn't need to be discussing this. One, Patroclus was technically being paid, and two, Achilles had an exam the next morning that he was not at all prepared for. "I'm not thinking of a girl," Patroclus objects with annoyance.
His friend's eyes narrow. Achilles had gotten better at reading him the past few months. "A boy, then?"
Patroclus hesitates. He gazes down at the unsolved problem on Achilles' paper, the chicken scratch that constituted his handwriting. He'd never do anything to jeopardize their friendship.
And yet.
He meets Achilles' gaze. "Yes," Patroclus replies. "A boy."
Achilles' lips stretch into a wide grin, and Patroclus has to hide his own smile behind his hand. His friend's immediate barrage of questions are met with resistance and the reminder that he needed an A in this class.
"You'll tell me about this boy later," Achilles demands, picking up his pencil and frowning at Patroclus.
Patroclus only chuckles. "Perhaps."