Chapter Text
“Give it to me. Give it. Give it.”
Grubby hands wrapped around Patroclus’ wrist. Narrowed eyes locked onto his own, spittle flying out of the other boy’s mouth. The command made Patroclus falter and he stumbled, but not due to the rough terrain around his feet. He felt something spark, heat curled in tendrils around his body. He let go.
The boy sneered and looked proudly down at his war prize. A pair of dice, delicate in their fine craftsmanship, Patroclus’ finest treasure, given to him by a palace guard who had spotted him playing with the gritty rocks that made up Opus’ soil.
“Is the Prince a sub?” The boy stepped forward, toward Patroclus. The brunette, of slight figure, limbs gangly and thin, stood straight, his chest heaving. He didn’t back away from the boy, but he didn’t step forward either.
“The Prince of Opus, a sub?” The boy’s lips curled. “Are you gonna kneel for me? Kneel, cmon. Kneel.”
Patroclus’ legs shook slightly, but he willed the feeling away. The feeling of heat strangled him, making his eyesight go blurry. He felt firecrackers racing up his spine. The boy stood expectantly in front of him, absentmindedly twisting the die in his fingers. He was smudging dirt and grime onto the nearly pristine die, Patroclus could just tell. He trembled, the command infiltrating his mind, seeping into his veins like a poison. The fire he felt under his feet weakened him, but also forced him to spring into action.
His arms lashed out and pushed the boy to the ground. The boy cried out and then lay still, and Patroclus was grateful for the silence. His mind calmed, the flames peetering out into embers that turned into ash at the corners of his mind. He didn’t look at the boy, afraid anything that he would awake and spit out another flurry of commands, bringing the fuzziness in Patroclus’ mind back at full force. Instead, he turned and ran, hiding in a bush at the far end of the meadow.
It wasn’t until later that he learned the boy was dead.
Patroclus’ secret died with him.
───✧⭒✷⭒✧───
The air is humid and thick in Phthia. Patroclus rests under the trees with some of the other boys hoping to escape the afternoon sun. They gorge themselves on figs stolen from the kitchen earlier that morning, and discuss their future, the honor that will be bestowed upon them for serving Peleus’ kingdom. They imagine the riches that they will find, delight in the image of themselves as hardened soldiers. Patroclus delights as well. What war will call them to don armor and sail across the sea to some distant shore? What treasures await, what ladies will fall into their gracious arms?
Their raucous laughter echoes through the courtyard. Grass stains Patroclus’ chiton as he rolls on the ground, his head thrown back in amusement.
Their voices hush as the focus draws away from the future and back to the present. One boy, with a gleeful sparkle in his eye, recounts last night, when he had made a serving girl kneel with a flippant comment. He discusses their coupling and how she obeyed his every command, relishing in the power he held over her. All of the boys, with wide eyes and lips upturned into grins, understood the girl’s obedience wasn’t only in part to the intrinsic patriarchy they reaped the benefits of, but due to the boy’s genetic designation, as a dom.
As they neared adulthood the designations shone more clearly. The doms were more muscled, arrogant, loud. They could make a sub stutter, avoid eye contact, do almost anything they desired… if they were strong enough. Some were low level doms, and their commands could be waved away with ease by most subs. These were not the boys whom Patroclus was concerned about. He feared the high level doms, those whose commands were like lashes, tying him in place, making him unable to process anything except for their words. If one such as those commanded him even all the power in his mind would not let him resist such a call.
And Patroclus soon saw some boys slip away. The boys who were fragile, docile, were sent to work in the kitchen. If they couldn’t brush away a simple command with a laugh like the other boys, they clearly were a sub and could not be permitted to train as a soldier. The number of bodies in the barracks dwindled slightly, and it became louder, rougher, within the inner sanctuary of the boys.
Of course some designations weren’t clear. Some boys were neutral, and didn’t lean toward any side at all. Many trained alongside Patroclus and the doms. If someone didn’t show an inclination of either, they were allowed to stay. This is who Patroclus was, he had no inclination for either, and from what anyone could tell, he was perfectly neutral, perfectly normal.
To keep up appearances, Patroclus trained harder than the rest of the boys. He ate as much as he could to bulk up in a way most subs could not. He trained his thoughts, using the casual commands thrown around in the barracks to steel his mind against such remarks.
In the night he slipped away to a small grove of trees in the forest that bordered the castle to the west. There, with the moon as his only observer and its silver glow blanketed over him, he was safe. He knelt silently, letting the act of subservience quiet his mind. It washed over him, and the twigs that dug into his legs, the sharp pricks of rocks underfoot was a welcome feeling. The ache of his knees and the weariness of his body comforted something inside of him.
This shameful act he considered an evil, everything he stood against, yet a necessary one. If, each night, he did not escape to the quietness of the forest and silence the thrumming of his mind, he would be unable to act normally. The buzzing that persisted quietly at the back of his head would gradually grow louder until it consumed all his thoughts, until the only thing that could calm him was a command that he would desperately latch onto like a life preserver.
Patroclus hated it, hated being inferior to those who were supposed to be his peers and friends. He hated having to mentally restrain himself from bowing at a command casually thrown around on the sparring field for fun. If he didn’t show, he could stay, he could train, he could be the same as everyone of those boys. He would not be a serving boy, and he would certainly not be a sub for anyone.
───✧⭒✷⭒✧───
The next day was supposed to be interesting, because the Prince would be visiting the training ground.
Words were abuzz in the barracks, as the boys were certain that the Prince wanted to choose a therapon. It was expected, of course, that he would choose a dom, someone who would be competent in battle, someone the Prince could lean on. A sub, while fulfilling the Prince’s needs of domination, wouldn’t be a worthy companion because of their soft nature. A sub, certainly, wouldn’t follow the Prince into war.
The sun beat down over the boys, and rivulets of sweat dripped down Patroclus’ back. He stood straight, keeping his eyes glued to the dusty path in front of him. The Prince would soon walk down it, and Patroclus must keep his mind steeled. If he slips up now, everything will be ruined and he will become someone who melts into the shadows, pouring wine and kneeling at the feet of another man.
The other boys rocked back and forth on their bare feet in excitement, their voices each a whisper that combined, became akin to the steady chirping of crickets in the long grass. They craned their necks toward the palace, waiting for someone to step out from under the stone arch and grace them with his presence.
Finally, footsteps could be heard walking along the cobbled path within the palace. Someone stepped onto the dusty path, scraping lightly along the rocks and dirt as he approached the line of boys. The armskeeper said something, but Patroclus could not focus on his words. Somewhere inside of himself, Patroclus felt a pull, a terrible, terrible pull toward whoever had just entered. Sweat pooled on his brow, and not from the heat of the sun.
As the figure approached, Patroclus felt less and less anchored to the earth. He dug his feet into the ground and snapped his arms against his side to keep them from trembling. No one had gotten a reaction like this out of Patroclus. He was surrounded by lower-grade doms, and only felt a fleeting pull like this from the armsmaster when he would say, “Arms stiffer, Patroclus,” or “Move your sword like this.” But that feeling would dissipate as quickly as it came.
A pair of sandaled feet stepped in front of Patroclus. His body was radiating need and he felt dizzy, almost unbalanced. He dared not lift his head, and was duly surprised when a hand squeezed his chin and tilted it upwards. Patroclus’ eyes met a sharp green gaze, and his breath faltered. He wanted to melt into the touch of the dom, having never experienced anything like this before, but the Prince dropped his arm back to his side.
The green eyes were appraising as they raked over Patroclus’ form, took in his sweat slicked chest and the white-knuckled grasp Patroclus held on the bottom of his chiton. Patroclus examined the Prince in turn, as much as his body would allow him to, for he felt a fuzziness creeping into his mind ever since the Prince had grabbed his chin.
The boy was roughly the same height as Patroclus with striking blonde hair. His skin was fair and held none of the blemishes and scars that other boys, Patroclus included, sported. He was lithe and muscular, but not as big as Patroclus, who had dedicated all his time into looking similar to the rest of the boys. The physique of the Prince was something one was born with. Patroclus was envious.
After what felt like an eon, the Prince moved onto the next boy, and Patroclus could breathe normally again. He prayed he had not given himself away. Had the Prince noticed how Patroclus’ breath had caught, how he could not fully meet the Prince’s eyes for more than a few seconds?
The fuzziness of his brain retracted as the Prince walked farther down the line. When he was finished, he spoke loudly out to the boys and the armsmaster.
“I will take some time to make my decision.”
The mere sound of his voice made Patroclus feel like he might fall to the ground. He gritted his teeth and did not look up until the boy had retreated back into the palace. The boys around Patroclus reflected on the meeting momentarily, but soon devolved into laughter and ridiculing each other of how they stood or reacted to the Prince. His presence hadn’t bothered them in the slightest, but Patroclus was still reeling from the after-effects of being so close to someone of that standing.
Very simply put, he hates the Prince.
───✧⭒✷⭒✧───
That night, the boys talk until sunrise about how they deserve to be the Prince’s therapon. They would proudly walk alongside him, laugh with him, dine with him, fight with him. “I’d lay down my life!” They yell, mimicking throwing themselves in front of him and taking a sword to the chest, if only to save his princely life.
Patroclus is strong-armed into joining the festivities, even though he tries to sneak out the backdoor when the moon has risen fully. He tries to laugh and go along with the dreams of his fellow soldiers, but the Prince’s eyes linger in the back of his mind, bringing back the memory of the fog that had engulfed his mind from a simple touch. Tonight, of all nights, he needed to kneel. He needed desperately to quiet his mind that raced with thoughts and fears.
When the morning light trickles in, the boys lament about getting no sleep and being slow on their feet in the training yard today. Patroclus’ head is pounding, his vision spotty when he stares at the sun. He closes his eyes tightly, imagining an iron wall around the desires of his designation. He would be normal. He is normal.
The training yard was hotter than ever before, if that was possible. The other boys made no comment on it and went to pick up swords or spears. Patroclus faced a straw dummy, clothed in flour sacks. His grip was loose around his sword, and he sways on his feet slightly. He felt heat prickle uncomfortably up his back and his eyes burned when he looked around the yard. The boisterous yells from the other boys was an assault to his senses, and his ears rang incessantly. Patroclus stumbled over to his straw dummy and leaned heavily against it, the equivalent of dropping his sword and running to hug an enemy on a bloody battlefield.
Patroclus closed his eyes and took deep breaths. His feet stood soundly on the ground, when he opened his eyes they were not swimming, and the heat at the back of his neck receded some. He could do this. He stepped backward, raising his sword as he eyed the faceless dummy. And then he was bent over, both hands on his knees as bile rose in his throat and spilled out of his mouth onto the dusty ground.
Other boys turned to look at Patroclus, murmuring among themselves. He could barely see, could not tell what was happening around him.
“ ‘S somethin I ate..” He muttered to no one in particular, and stumbled off the field into the castle. He could hear the armsmaster marching up behind him, and Patroclus turned around, his eyes glazed as he took in the blurry outline of the man.
“ ‘M sick,” Patroclus slurred, gesturing to the throw-up on his chiton and chin. He felt the overwhelming need to kneel at the feet of the armsmaster, and maybe that would make him feel better. His knees trembled, another second of silence and Patroclus was seriously considering risking it all just to get a better handle on.. this.
The armsmaster scratched the back of his head and dubiously surveyed Patroclus. “Take the day off.” He said gruffly, his nose crinkling slightly at the stench of Patroclus. He did one last once over and turned on his heel back to the gaggle of boys in the yard.
“Get back to work!” The armsmaster yells, and the boys scatter like birds taking flight.
Patroclus staggers farther into the castle, dragging himself up cold stone staircases to find an abandoned room, anywhere that he could go and be entirely alone. When he reaches the top floor of the castle, he finds a small closet, filled with bins of barley and grain and barrels of wine. He falls to his knees, his legs taking much of the brunt impact of hitting the hard stone floor. Yet, the pain that flares up is instantly forgotten and replaced with the quieting of his mind.
His nauseousness is forgotten, the buzzing is blissfully silent. A small whine escapes Patroclus’ lips as he seeps deeper, letting fog fill his mind, quieting the senses that made his day a living nightmare. As he kneels, he feels a type of contentment that could never be replicated, a feeling of rightness so safe he doesn’t know why he ever felt it was wrong. He stays kneeling for a long time, but soon the buzzing returns, and so does the crawling of his flesh. He needs more, Patroclus needs something more, something that can’t be obtained from kneeling alone on the stone floor.
The sound of footsteps, the absence of footsteps, a sound- a clearing of the throat. The ringing comes back in full force, the fog retreats, Patroclus almost cries out, wanting the fuzziness to stay and wrap him up forever. Another sound, this time the shuffling of feet. Patroclus shoots to his feet, eyes wide in fear.
The Prince stands before him, a small smile playing on his lips. How did Patroclus not notice him before? Shouldn’t his body have warned him, had a visceral reaction to the very presence of the Prince just a few doors away from him. His senses hadn’t acted then, but they surely were aware of him now, and Patroclus felt the pull again, the primal need to kneel at his feet, to do anything he said.
“Are you alright?” The Prince said simply, eyes tracking the path of vomit down the front of Patroclus’ clothes. Patroclus immediately wipes away the vomit and spit from his chin, heat spreading up his face. He nods quickly, unable to stop the ferocity and immediateness of his answer.
“Why were you kneeling just now?” Another question from the Prince, and this time his eyebrow is raised ever so slightly, the ghost of a smile on his face.
“I-I dropped something, and was looking for it.” The words tumbled awkwardly out of his mouth, his voice stuttering through the sentence. Patroclus cursed himself. The one time it was imperative he didn't act like a sub, and now the truth was served to the Prince on a silver platter.
The Prince hummed and turned his attention to the door, glancing outside before pulling it fully shut. The lock clicked into place as the Prince moved the deadbolt. Patroclus was frozen in place. He knew that he should be fully in drop by now, barely able to keep his body upright, but somehow the Prince’s presence acted like an anchor to reality.
“You are a sub.” The Prince stated calmly. He crossed his arms across his chest in something that looked like pride.
Patroclus’ eyes widen. “No! No, no I’m not, your- your highness, your princeliness? No, I’m not, I’m a soldier, you- didn’t you see me yesterday?” He felt lightheaded as he spoke, the words pouring out unprompted, a torrent of water that never slowed to a trickle.
“Stop.”
Patroclus stilled instantly. It wasn’t even a command, and his body reacted immediately. Heat flooded his cheeks, his tongue was between his teeth. Even if he wanted to say something, he knew that he couldn’t. His veins were ice, his tongue frozen and useless in his mouth.
“Do not lie to your Prince. You are a sub, yes?” The Prince’s eyes narrowed, and Patroclus shrunk back under his gaze. He nodded in stalting, jerky movements. While his mind screamed no, Patroclus was helpless to stop his body.
The Prince smiled. “Not so hard, hmm? And I already know you’re a sub, you nearly went into drop yesterday when I grabbed your chin. I don’t know how you’ve gotten away with it. But don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”
He winked, and Patroclus grimaced, hoping that it was close enough to a grateful smile to appease him. The boy frowned, and Patroclus felt a trickle of dread run through him.
“Say thank you.”
“Thank you.” The words slipped past Patroclus’ tongue immediately. The Prince smiled broader, clearly relishing his control. Patroclus cursed himself and his designation. He was making an absolute fool of himself, and giving the Prince more blackmail to use against him.
“Are you dropping right now?” The Prince pouted at Patroclus, the edges of his fake frown tilting upwards. Patroclus began to shake his head no, but once his eyes met the full force of the Prince’s, it turned into a forceful nod.
“Do you want me to help you..?” The Prince offered, his eyes examining Patroclus’ body with curiosity, landing finally on his face.
Patroclus choked out, “No.” His body fought against his mind, begging him to say yes, to give in. But he could not, it was too risky, the Prince would surely tell people and then Patroclus’ life, the life he had envisioned ever since ending up in Phthia was ruined.
“You should accept my help.” The Prince said, now serious. “I doubt you’ve ever fully dropped before, and.. I feel somewhat responsible.” His tone took on a guilty edge at the end of the sentence.
“Somewhat,” Patroclus laughed dryly, fighting back the urge to grab at the Prince’s robes and beg him to do anything he wanted, anything to fix Patroclus.
“Is that a yes?” The Prince pushed, stepping forward into Patroclus’ space. There was still room between the two of them, but now Patroclus was only a step away from the Prince’s feet, from the simultaneously terrible and yet devastatingly desired act of kneeling at someone’s feet.
Patroclus needed this, he needed this so badly. The Prince already knew, he could already tell the armsmaster, the rest of the boys, the king. This would add fire to the flames, but only that. He had nothing, and yet everything, to lose. Patroclus closed his eyes so tightly they burned, and nodded in two quick jerks.