Chapter Text
He was going to kill him.
Achilles kept the diary back under the pillow. Somewhere not tempting to read it.
Then he sat on the bed. Staring at the darkness beyond the window.
Goodness his smell was everywhere.
Lavender shampoo and sandalwood soap. Achilles knows because he once tried it on himself. And Patroclus had given him one of those looks. Exasperated and fond.
The door opened.
Achilles need not have looked. He knew who it was already. But he still did. Like a magnet to a sharp pointy knife.
Patroclus walked to his bed. Quiet soundless steps. Then flopped beside him. An exhale escaping him.
Achilles watched. How could he not? Chocolate brown hair fanned out behind him. Eyes closed. Skin flushed and glistening. A hand thrown over his head. Lips parted as he breathed.
Achilles' eyes trailed down. To the sliver of olive skin just above his belt. Between the shirt that was untucked and had ridden up.
He wanted to ask– where were you? He wanted to tell him – I had been waiting. For you.
And he would have. Three months ago he wouldn't have even waited. For Patroclus never would have been anywhere but with him. They would have sneaked out. Somewhere only them. And Achilles would have been the only one to witness how his skin flushed when he was pressed against the wall. How his lips, wet and swollen, would chase him when he pulled back.
“Stop staring Achilles,” Patroclus whispered, eyes still closed. Though his voice was as gentle as ever, Achilles heard the undercurrent of warning.
Achilles didn't reply. He didn't stop staring.
Eventually Patroclus opened his eyes. But instead of looking at him, he stared at the ceiling.
There were glowing night stars up above. They had stuck it up themselves. After Achilles had confessed to being afraid of the dark, and Patroclus had shown up the next day with a packet of those. But more than the light, it was the memory of it that comforted him the most. The laughter and teasing. The first time Achilles had lifted up Patroclus and spun him around in circles. The breathless gasp as he was dropped flush against him.
“I was with Brisies,” Patroclus replied to the unasked question. “And we almost got caught.”
Achilles didn't say anything. Because he knew. Of course he knew. He had seen them afterall. And had nearly broken into a sprint to their dorm. Then spent the next half hour staring at Patroclus diary.
Pathetic.
He deserved it, he supposed. After what he did. He more than deserved it.
Still it hurt. A wrenching pull at the middle of his chest. Inverting his skin. Pink and pulsing. His interior exposed to all.
Achilles looked away. Glad that Patroclus didn't look at him. Wouldn't look at him. For three whole months.
It was quiet. The rattling of the old ceiling fan. The rain pattering the roofs. And the distant sleepy chatter of other students.
They stayed that way for what felt like hours. Patroclus didn't ask him to leave his bed. And Achilles didn't move.
Just inches separated them. A distance of two fucking stars between them.
“There's a change in schedule,” Achilles said, now looking at his shoes, at the shoelaces that were coming undone. “All this week's events are pushed to the next. Until the storm passes away.”
He saw Patroclus give a nod from the corner of his eyes.
Achilles hated rain. Because rain meant he would have to be cooped up in the house. With no place to expend his restless energy.
Then he met Patroclus. Who adored rain. And Achilles had fallen in love with it too.
Until now.
He had now no excuse to leave the confines of their shared dorm. No excuse to escape the suffocating silence. The spaces where words, fucking paragraphs, used to fly.
Thunk thunk.
As droplets dripped down the window. To slide down the wall. And breach the soil. Becoming one with its family.
Achilles nodded back and stood up. Hoping this would be the day Patroclus stopped him. That this would be the day he would finally be forgiven.
And when he glanced back at him, Patroclus had already closed his eyes again.
Is the fork enough to kill somebody?
His knuckles tightened around it. And he placed it a good distance away. Just in case he ended up acting on it.
But unbeknownst to the doom that he had just escaped, Diomedes continued blabbering away.
“You should have been there Achilles,” he said, taking a loud slurp of his soup, “the fireworks were magnificent. Odysseus really had gotten the good fucking stuff. Scared the staff shitless.” He laughed. Loud and free.
Achilles forced a grin on his face.
Diomedes stopped laughing.
“Are you alright mate?” Voice low.
“Of course,” Achilles said, still grinning.
“Then why are you baring your teeth?”
Achilles scowled. Fingers edging towards the fork again.
Diomedes sighed. “You know you can come and stay with us for a while.” His eyes trailed beyond Achilles' shoulder where Patroclus sat. Close with Brisies.
“I am alright,” Achilles muttered, and shoved a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.
Raucous laughter erupted beside them and Achilles snapped his head to the side.
Patroclus was grinning. Brisies and Diademia were hanging over his words. Laughing with a hand pressed to their stomachs. Deidamia threw a pea at him. And Patroclus flicked water from his glass at her.
Happy. That's what they were.
Then as if drawn by his glower, Patroclus glanced at him. His grin dimmed until his face became a blank slate. Patroclus stared at him. Then reached down, grabbed his bag and stood up without another word.
Brisies questioned where he was going. Patroclus shook his head and left the hall.
The laughter disappeared.
Patroclus' food, still full in his tray, went cold.
Achilles glanced down at his bowl of mashed potato. He felt Diomedes’ sympathetic look.
“Would you like to finish this?” Achilles asked him, voice catching at the end.
He thought Diomedes would protest. Tell him to get over it and move on. Drink until he passes out. Then wake up and confront him. Again.
Instead Diomedes, the only person he talked to for the last three months, took the bowl and started eating from it.
“Complete my soup instead,” he said.
Achilles nodded and drank straight from the bowl at one go. The taste, like crushed stone and sludge.
Then he got up without another word and strode away. One hand curled in his pocket, the other hiking his bag over his shoulder, his long blond hair falling over his face at one side, hiding him from the world.
Later he kneeled before the toilet and threw up every last thing he ate.
“Now who can tell me why the fungi were removed from the Plant Kingdom?” The teacher asked.
Achilles sat at the end. Watching Patroclus who sat two rows in front of him. Scribbling notes. Diligent as always.
Patroclus glanced at his sides. Waiting for someone else to raise the hand first.
If Achilles was there beside him then he would have forced him to raise his hand. Because he had seen Patroclus three days ago study the very thing. Mumbling to himself as he made neat notes.
“Because their cell walls are made of chitin?” Patroclus asked, voice tentative, even though that must be the right answer. Because Patroclus would never have opened his mouth otherwise.
“Very good,” the teacher smiled, going back to the board and Achilles felt a flicker of pride at him.
He zoned out the rest of the class, staring at the brown curls which turned golden when he narrowed his eyes.
The bell rang.
“What was the homework?” Diomedes yawned, waking up from his nap.
Achilles shrugged, stuffing his notebook back into his bag, even though he had written nothing in it. Except for the same letter he traced over and over. Pretty. Poetic. Playful. Patroclus. Patroclus.
The class dispersed and they left along with the crowd. He tried to search for the brown curls but it had already disappeared.
It was break time.
Achilles leaned against the corridor wall. Diomedes chatted up some girl beside him. Perhaps his girlfriend. He didn't know. Perhaps he should.
He inhaled the smell of wet soil. Watching the rain pierce the ground, trample the daffodils that lined the surrounding. Delicate and strong as they sprung back again.
Patroclus had made him a bracelet once. With daffodils. And Achilles had lost it the very night. Patroclus had rolled his eyes and made him another. And every time he’d lose it or the flowers would wither away, Patroclus would make him another. It was a good luck charm for Achilles.
He had none with him now. The last one he had, he lost it the day they fought.
He glanced to the side. The girl had left. Diomedes was watching the rain.
Achilles hesitated,
“Who was she?”
Diomedes shrugged,
“Dunno. She was just congratulating me. You know for getting shortlisted in the Nationals.”
“Oh,” Achilles whispered wide eyed. National swimming Championships. Diomedes had been talking their ears off for so long about it. And Achilles, shit friend that he was, wouldn't even bother keeping up with the one person who still stuck with him.
“I would have told you,” Diomedes said quickly, “But you know um,” he trailed off.
Achilles felt guilty. Yes, he was still hung over. He probably would be for the foreseeable future. Perhaps for the rest of his life. But that was no excuse to ignore his friend.
“Congratulations,” Achilles said, his smile genuine, "It's such a huge deal. I am happy for you Dio.”
Diomedes smiled back.
“Well,” Achilles raised an eyebrow, “how are you going to treat me? Don't think I don't know this was the real reason you didn't tell me.”
Diomedes smirked,
“I may or may not have procured expensive vintage wine from my father's finest secret collection.”
Achilles gasped,
“No shit!”
“Yes,” Diomedes laughed brightly, “Father was away on a work trip. I stole it and brought it here.”
“Have you opened it?” Achilles asked with narrow eyes. If he had then he was going to tackle him to the ground right there.
Diomedes shook his head. “No. Even though Ody wanted to. Patroclus has never tried good wine, has he? So uh I wanted to save it for him. But then,” Diomedes averted his eyes.
And Achilles realised he wasn't the only one who missed him. Patroclus wasn't talking to any of them. Because in one way or another they all had let him down.