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Bronze began to slip its essence into the sky, slowly but surely, as Helios performed his routine of driving the sun chariot to make himself known. The palace was already bustling with servants and their respective duties. The sounds of footsteps echoing outside of his chamber woke Achilles up from the realm of Hypnos. He shifted in his pallet, glanced at the other pallet just a few meters away only to see Patroclus' in his most serene state—eyes closed, breathing even, lips slightly parted, face crease-free.
A smile crept up his face at the sight. Moments where he could see Patroclus without a crease on his face were rare. Achilles tried to savor and treasure the only time he'd seen it; right before Patroclus awoke in the morning.
Achilles would always say that Patroclus looked handsome and divine at all times, even when his eyes were shining with tears. The reason why he liked watching Patroclus sleep was simply because his therapon always thought too hard, seldom letting tranquility settle. It was as if the Prince of Opus never allowed himself of such bliss.
The day Patroclus arrived at the palace slipped through the cracks of fingers like sand. He was particularly disinterested that day. When one of the servants brought the recently exiled prince, Achilles was lounging without purpose, feigning boredom etched into his skin. It was one of the days that he wished he could turn back to. Perhaps Patroclus would know then that he'd made an impression.
It did not take long for Patroclus' eyes to open. In the dim light of the room, Achilles could see the way he blinked his eyes, turning sleep away while adjusting to the light, however faint. He did not yet notice that Achilles was staring at his figure and a grin bloomed on Achilles' face.
"Good morning," Achilles said, his voice was as steady as it would be in the afternoon and evening.
Despite the amount of time he'd done this, somehow, he still startled Patroclus. The gasp of surprise echoing through his chamber was as melodious as a bard's song. His grin grew at the self satisfaction.
Patroclus narrowed his eyes in annoyance and Achilles felt a tug at his heartstrings. It happened, sometimes, at even the smallest thing that Patroclus did. It was a feeling that was foreign to him. This feeling was nothing like dread, nothing like the feeling of wanting to be rid of Patroclus entirely. Instead, this feeling made his skin prickle and desire grow. At thirteen, Achilles barely understood what desire meant but he knew, then, that he wanted Patroclus near.
With a gruff, Patroclus replied, "good morning, Achilles."
"Shall we swim today?"
Although the room was still rather dark, Achilles could see how Patroclus shifted in his pallet, peering toward the open window. Achilles followed the line of sight, drinking the view of the horizon where the clouds glowed in burnished brown and orange. Deep in his gut, he wished to fly among the clouds. Sometimes he wondered what would it feel like to fly and be free of expectations and duties.
"Before or after breakfast?" Patroclus asked before breaking into a yawn, and Achilles' heart stuttered at the endearing sight.
Instead of answering, Achilles slipped from his pallet with an enthusiasm he'd been nursing as he watched Patroclus in his sleep. His dainty feet took a few strides before he was right in front of Patroclus. He knew he must have looked unkempt with his hair loose and tangled, gold strands falling into his eyes like a lion’s mane after a night of rest, but the thought barely mattered to him. If Patroclus saw him like this, Achilles did not mind. He knew that his companion would not view him differently. There's no one like you, Patroclus had said to him once and other people's opinions of him were nothing but faded noise in the background.
Patroclus stared at him with his big, dark eyes and all Achilles wanted was to swim and get lost in them. As he returned Patroclus' gaze, he felt that familiar, inexplicable flutter low in his chest. He did not have a name for it yet. What he knew was that it'd been manifesting to him more often than he could possibly count. Seeing Patroclus made something warm and restless bloom inside him, like he’d just finished running hard and didn’t quite want to stop.
Achilles rocked on his heels, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. The feeling made him restless as it was too big for his chest. He had tried to swallow it, yet it was as unyielding as it was stubborn. He grinned instead, wide and unthinking.
"Before," he finally answered. "The water will have the perfect temperature then."
Pleased by his answer, Patroclus smiled at him—bright, gentle, and utterly disarming. Achilles’ heartbeat stumbled, then quickened, thump, thump, thump, loud and insistent like a drum beaten just before a battle. For a fleeting moment, he feared Patroclus might hear it, and ask a question Achilles had no words to answer.
Then Patroclus pushed himself on his elbows, the cover slipped down his arm before he stood next to Achilles, slightly towering over him. For a moment there, Achilles pondered when Patroclus had exceeded him in growth. The thought was not one of discontent but rather curiosity.
Achilles turned back toward the window, toward the glowing sky, and pointed as if the thought had just occurred to him.
“The sea will look like fire,” he added. “I don’t want to miss it.”
Patroclus laughed softly, and Achilles had to bite back the urge to coo. “You never do.”
That was true. Achilles never missed the sea, never missed the mornings when the world barely commenced and anything seemed possible. But more than that, he never missed Patroclus. The thought struck him with surprising clarity, and he blinked, as if it had come from somewhere outside himself.
It was no small feat to will the thunders in his heart to go down. When he looked at Patroclus again, the boy was already looking at him with his brown eyes glinting in the dark. Achilles had to do something before he gave in to his impulses.
“Race you down,” Achilles said suddenly, the words spilling out of his mouth before he could weigh it down.
Patroclus glanced over his shoulder, eyes shining. “You always do.”
Achilles only laughed, already turning for the door. That strange warmth still humming beneath his skin. As he ran past the servants looking at him strangely, realization dawned on him. Perhaps with Patroclus by his side, he really could conquer the world. Or, he didn't need the world to sing praises to his name. All he needed was this, the calm breeze in the early mornings, freeing more than anything with contentment beyond what the words could convey.
When they reached the beach, both he and Patroclus were panting. Achilles' victory was absolute, nobody could contend with him in a matter of agility and Patroclus knew that. It was somewhat a miracle that he still indulged Achilles on these things knowing the outcome.
"I won!" Achilles proudly announced with a grin.
Patroclus laughed freely, without restraint, and Achilles could swear it was the most beautiful sound in the entire world and he could live with it forever. "You always do, Achilles."
"Now you go into the water first!"
With resignation and acceptance, Patroclus stepped forward. He took his chiton off, sliding past his shoulders and left without a care above the sand until he was bare.
This was one of the reasons why Achilles was rather determined to win the race. Patroclus looked like he was a descendant of the sun as he made his way into the water. Achilles was partially lying when he said he did not want to miss the sea looking like fire. What he truly did not want to miss was Patroclus walking into it.
The water welcomed him in slow increments, lapping at his calves, then his knees, until it reached his hips. The rising sun hung low behind him, caught just above the horizon. Its light spilled across Patroclus’ back like molten gold. And when Patroclus turned to face him, the sea clung to his skin in gleaming rivulets, tracing the lines of his body as though it had been made for him alone.
His olive skin shone where the light struck it, burnished and glorious, as though the sun itself had kissed him and refused to let go. Water beaded and slid along his waist and stomach, each movement catching the light anew. Achilles found himself rooted to the sand, breath stolen clean from his chest.
For a small moment, Achilles thought of the gods his mother spoke of—of flaming golden-haired Apollo, of iron-muscled Ares, of all-imposing Zeus—and wondered how they could dare call themselves divine when Patroclus stood before him like this. The thought came unbidden and unquestioned. If the gods were watching, they would surely turn their faces away in shame.
All Achilles wanted to do was get down on his knees and worship every inch of Patroclus' skin with his lips. He wanted to whisper his prayers on Patroclus' lips before claiming his blessings in a kiss. And he wanted nothing more than to build an altar on his bed where he could revere him with a level of devotion that no priests could ever achieve.
The thought startled him so badly that Achilles drew a sharp breath, like he just woke up from a dream he had wandered too far into. He had never thought of Patroclus like this—not in the way that made his heart pounding and his thoughts turning strange and reverent and frightening all at once.
Affection was something he understood for it was something he felt strongly for Patroclus. There was no doubt in that. They had grown together like twin saplings with tangled roots and overlapped shadows. But this, this felt like standing at the edge of a cliff overseeing a pit where the end was unseen. Achilles could not determine where or how he'd end up should he fall.
Achilles pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the violent thump of his own heart. Why should the sight of Patroclus make his chest ache like this? Why should his mind conjure such strong wanting for a boy he'd watched grow?
He had heard the bards speak of such things—of heroes undone not by blade or fate, but by love. He had read poems of souls split at birth and wandering the world until they found their other half. He had always thought those stories beautiful, if a little foolish.
Now, with Patroclus standing in all his splendor not too far away from him in the water with the sunlight for a crown, Achilles wondered if the poets had simply lacked better words.
Perhaps this was what they meant. Perhaps it was neither a conquest nor glory, but comfort and serenity. The quiet certainty that somewhere in the vastness of the world, there was one person who felt like home.
The idea frightened him and exhilarated him all the same. Everything about his recent findings went against what his mother had been telling him since he could barely stand on his own two feet. Yet, it settled in his chest with an ease that brought peace to his mind.
Before Achilles could ponder further, Patroclus' laughter echoed in his ears, splashing water toward him. Patroclus lifted a hand, beckoning him. “Are you coming or not?”
He laughed back, with relief and warmth tangling together. Then he finally stepped into the sea. Whatever this feeling was, he knew only this; it had Patroclus’ shape, and it was already a part of him.
They swam without keeping score, letting the waves carry them where they would. Sometimes their arms brushed, other times Patroclus laughed and splashed him again, and Achilles found himself laughing too.
Here, being like this with Patroclus, Achilles could pretend that there was no prophecy waiting for him. Here, there was only the simple joy of being young and together beneath a widening sky.
When they finally drifted back toward shore, the sun had climbed higher noting that the world fully awake at last. Achilles lay back in the shallows with the taste of salt on his lips. He closed his eyes to the sound of the waves. He had no idea what the future would demand of him, nor what name this feeling would one day be given. Those questions belonged to another time.
For now, Patroclus was beside him, the sea was calm, and his heart was full. And Achilles thought, with a certainty that felt as enduring as the tide, that whatever paths lay ahead, he would walk them more bravely knowing he would not walk them alone.