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They would sing Achilles’ name for generations for his strength. He had bested most, and had struck down so many men he long lost count. He was the only person keeping this war from tipping over and having them lose. He had even beaten sillier, smaller parts of life such as living convincingly as a woman. So why was he now losing it?
Now that he had properly avenged Patroclus’ death and put the war on a standstill until the Trojan’s could properly give Hector a funeral, he tried to rest. The gods’ help couldn’t last him forever after all. Yet sleep didn’t take him. How could it take him, when his eyes couldn’t close, or move away from the figure laying next to him.
Despite his mother’s suggestion, he did not lay with any of his slave girls to soften the grief, and hadn’t slept with any since the night where he and Patroclus enjoyed their company together. He was pretty sure they were outside, weaving or whatever slave girls do. The figure next to him was even more well known than any of them.
“Patroclus,” he murmured, scared to speak any louder than the lowest he could go in case someone heard him and labelled him a mad man as they labelled him too prideful. “Why.” Why was all he could say. He had too many questions otherwise.
Patroclus smiled at him. Patroclus smiling was not a common sight, he was as guarded as Achilles was, but where Achilles met the world with anger, Patroclus tried his best to meet the world with indifference. They were never good at it with each other though. Achilles couldn’t help but let his anger fade away when Patroclus was with him, and Patroclus was never as good at hiding his smiles when it was Achilles who tried to bring them. They ruined each other, but it was Achilles who had to deal with it now.
“So much blood on your hands, Achilles, bringer of death. You are aware that mine is included, don’t you?” Patroclus’ voice sounded wrong. It sounded just slightly off, but Achilles would never get a chance to hear it correctly again. His memory of his voice would fade, and one day it would go silent. He hoped the war ended and his death came before he ever had to experience that.
“I’m sorry,” Achilles whispered. Achilles did not apologise to anyone. He was a goddess’ son, and the greatest asset in this war. He had nothing to gain from apologising. What did he have to gain from apologising to a dead man?
“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Achilles.” Patroclus’ words felt as though they reverberated around the tent, cutting into his skin. Patroclus leaned up, so he was no longer laying beside Achilles, but rather sitting beside him. Achilles was now face to face with the wound in Patroclus’ stomach, looking too bloody and not bloody enough.
Patroclus reached over and began stroking his hair, right beside his ear. It was barely there, proving that he would never have Patroclus again, but he could feel it, just how soft it was. It was like a lover’s touch. Patroclus had played with his hair before, finding interest in how he let it grow longer over the years. He never got the chance to play with it cut, as that hair now went in the pyre with him. There was something different with how he played with his hair now that it is short versus how he did when it was long. Or perhaps he was just pretending it was different. Was it any less romantic when Patroclus was alive?
They never put a name to what was between them. It was too dangerous. They were both too old to be having each other in the way they both wanted. They simply ignored how much they wanted to reach out and make each other their eromenos’, pretended that all their ‘experimentation’ in their younger years was just that, and made every excuse as to why they never let each other go. Had Achilles known he wouldn’t have gotten to keep Patroclus, perhaps he would have made those sacrifices.
“Is there a reason you are here?” Achilles muttered. The hand in his hair made it hard to think. “I am sorry, but if sorry doesn’t cut it, why stay around if there is nothing I can do?” He wanted Patroclus by his side, wished so desperately that he was the one to leave this life first, but this was barely Patroclus. He was but a memory of him, twisted into his worst fears.
Patroclus smiled down at him again. Oh how he loved that smile when he was alive, but now he is sure it will haunt his nightmares if he is ever blessed with sleep again. “I gave my life to you, Achilles. I spent my last moments thinking about you, about how I just wanted to make you happy. If you had fought, we could have spent more time together. But you are just too selfish, too full of hubris to have understood that I would suffer consequences. So I hope you spend your last moments thinking about me.”
Tears welled in Achilles’ eyes. Had he known Patroclus would have died he would have fought. How was he supposed to know the consequences when he so rarely suffered them? “So you just want me to suffer?” he asked, louder than any other time he had spoken. Who cared if someone heard him speaking, he felt crazy, why not label him as that as well?
Patroclus leaned down again. He was propped up on his elbows, one hand still in his hair. Achilles was trapped beneath him. He could easily toss Patroclus off if he wanted to, he was always far stronger than Patroclus, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t dare shove him off, not when he had been craving this proximity as much as he detested this warped version of Patroclus’ existence.
“I don’t want you to suffer,” he answered, his smile finally gone. He leaned in closer, and the fact that Achilles could not feel his breath on his face disturbed him. “I just want you to die knowing that you failed me. The great Achilles got rid of the one person who cared for him for more than being a hero just because he could not handle a little argument.” The smile returned, far too caring for their conversation. “I loved you, Achilles. You know I do. You know we shared a love we never shared with anyone else. So I hope you know that I just want you to experience the pain I did.”
Achilles began to cry. He couldn’t figure out if he wanted Patroclus to stop talking or to never stop talking. He missed him so dearly, he would take anything, even this constant barrage of insults. Patroclus would not stop smiling down at him, and soon bridged the difference between them as their lips collided. It was not the usual friendly kisses they gave, however rare they were in case they turned into something more. This was that something more they had been so scared of.
Achilles would think about this night when he died, perhaps by exhaustion. He would see Patroclus when he died, but until then, he would only have the memories and regret to remember him by.