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Achilles is a pious man.
He always observes the holy days, performs the rituals and makes the appropriate sacrifices, and always, before each meal, makes an offering to the gods.
When Ajax comes by the Myrmidon camp that evening, Achilles fills everyone’s goblets with the wine that the slaves have mixed with water in the big bronze bowls. From his spot near the fire, tending to the meat that’s roasting on a spit over the coals, Patroclus watches Achilles as he solemnly offers a libation to Zeus and Hestia for blessing their meal. Wine is poured onto the soil, which drinks it up greedily.
Then, and only then, does the feast begin.
The men laugh and eat and drink, make boastful jests about their exploits and the spoils they’ve taken from each recent battle. After the platters of meat are taken away, Achilles brings out his lyre. This is his favourite moment, Patroclus thinks: when Achilles places his finely carved lyre on his lap and sets his fingers on the strings, and everyone around the table goes quiet, holding their breaths in exquisite rapture. The clear sounds of the instrument and Achilles’ voice fill the night air; Achilles himself looks like an otherworldly being pulled out of a myth or an old story, the flickering firelight painting his golden features in delicate brass-rose tones.
It is close to midnight when Ajax and his generals thank Achilles and Patroclus for their hospitality and make their way towards their own camp. Patroclus is secretly relieved that they left earlier tonight, unlike those other nights when Achilles and Ajax would get caught in games or banter until the early morning. As much as Patroclus enjoys Ajax’s company, it’s been a long day, and there was too much to take care of during it. He’s looking forward to finally going to sleep.
Which doesn’t seem to be an option, as Achilles catches his hand in much too meaningful a way the second the door of the tent falls closed behind him.
“Achilles—” Patroclus starts in laughing protest, but whatever he had been about to say is muffled when Achilles draws him near to kiss him deeply. His lips taste of wine and spices and the lingering sweetness of his singing, and Patroclus sighs and melts into his embrace, helpless to the pull.
“I’ve been thinking of this all night,” Achilles murmurs, hands drifting to Patroclus’ lower back. He pulls him flush against him.
“I thought it was Ajax’s heroic tales of the taking of Arisbe you were thinking about, and all the gold he found there,” Patroclus teases. “You seemed quite taken with them.” He groans softly when Achilles’ thigh presses between his legs. He brings up no resistance when Achilles pushes him towards the grandiose chair by the even more grandiose table he had acquired earlier that month.
“Exaggerations, most of them, I’m sure,” Achilles says. “I doubt even mighty Ajax can kill ten men with one fell swoop of his sword.”
“You’ll never know until you see it.” Patroclus lets Achilles sit him down on the chair, heat rising within him at the sight of his lover kneeling between his open legs. Achilles’ palms smooth up the length of Patroclus’ thighs, pushing the fabric of his chiton out of the way. He glances up at Patroclus, lips curled in a smirk that’s full of smugness and suggestion; beneath the fabric, Patroclus is already hard and aching, as if he’d been waiting for this very moment all night as well.
But Achilles makes no move to touch him. Instead, he reaches for the goblet that’s been left on the table. There is still some wine in it from their meal earlier that day. Achilles picks it up, then reverently whispers a small prayer under his breath before pouring some wine on the ground.
“What are you doing?”
Achilles looks at him straight in the eyes, as if the answer is obvious. “I’m about to have a feast, that’s what.”
“Really now?” Patroclus sputters a laugh. “Are you joking?”
“I would never joke about such things,” Achilles says seriously. His fingers wrap around the base of Patroclus’ cock, sending a shiver through him. “This is important to me.”
“This is important to you?” Patroclus can't stop laughing. “By the gods, Achilles, you’re—”
Utterly ridiculous, he wants to say, but all words die on his tongue when Achilles takes him, full and deep, in his mouth.
And the thoughts buzzing around Patroclus’ head quiet down for a long while.
He'd thought it was a one time thing. Turns out, it wasn't.
The large bonfires lit for Dionysus' festival have been burning for most of the day. The atmosphere is merry and bright; the dancers sway to the beat of the drums, and the wine flows faster than ever.
It is a hot night, unusually hot for the time of year, and Patroclus' skin feels warm, but it isn't just the drink that makes his blood race. It is Achilles' eyes, as green as the fire is gold, watching his every move throughout the lengthy festivities. He doesn’t drift far from him, and his fingers keep snaking up the length of Patroclus' thigh under the table when no one's looking.
"If you wanted to get me alone all you had to do was ask," Patroclus tells him once they're back in their tent. Achilles' response is a low moan; his lips are already on Patroclus’, his fingers tangled in his hair.
"I wanted to take you by surprise," he says, pushing him towards the bed.
"Spoken like a true predator," Patroclus chuckles. His hands brush up Achilles' smooth thighs as soon as his lover straddles him, pressing him down to the mattress. The firelight does wondrous things to Achilles' body, illuminating his beautiful skin and giving the sheen of his sweat a dazzling, hypnotic quality. Achilles pulls at the pin that holds the fabric to his shoulders and it slides between them, free of its bindings. Patroclus runs a hand down Achilles' torso as soon as their clothes are all discarded, to feel the warmth and pulse of him.
A small amphora stands next to their bed, black figures daintily drawn on its terracotta surface. Achilles reaches for it and pulls out the cork. The scent of strong wine wafts between them, sweet like honey, dark as blackest sin.
"Another libation?" Patroclus asks. Achilles only smiles, but instead of tipping the mouth of the bottle over the ground, the liquid splashes on Patroclus’ neck, pooling in the hollows of his throat and his collarbone. He stares at Achilles in confusion.
"Achilles, what—"
Achilles leans forth to run his tongue up Patroclus' neck— one long, tantalising stripe from the vee at the base of his throat to the curve of Patroclus' bottom lip.
"This," he purrs, "is for Dionysus."
The lingering feel of Achilles' tongue on his skin sends a strong shiver through Patroclus. "This wine is undiluted, you know," he says, voice dropping low. “Only savages drink it this way.”
Achilles shrugs carelessly. "I’ve been called worse."
"Is that so?"
His answer is another splash of wine, a blood red swirl that lands in the centre of his chest. The tips of Achilles’ golden hair caress Patroclus' sides as he bends down over him again and eagerly drinks from him.
"This is for Aphrodite," Achilles murmurs, lips pressed over Patroclus’ heart. When not a drop of wine remains, he crawls down the length of him, gazing up at him with his fire-lit jade eyes, lazy and seductive like a panther on the prowl.
"And this," he says, holding Patroclus’ gaze as he pours the wine over his erect cock, "is for you."
The liquid is chill against Patroclus’ sensitive, warmed up skin. But the shock of the coolness of the wine is nothing compared to the jolt of pleasure that rushes through him when Achilles’ hot mouth envelops him.
Patroclus threads his fingers through Achilles’ hair with a deep sigh and arches into that sweltering embrace. Achilles laps at the dark wine that gathers in the dips of Patroclus’ navel greedily, like a cat does cream. He hums at the back of his throat as he does it, the vibrations travelling up Patroclus’ limbs through his entire body.
“Aren’t you worried the gods will know?” Patroclus asks, at once bold and breathless, though in truth he could hardly care about the gods, or anything else. Not with Achilles’ hands on him, his gorgeous eyes, his lips. “That they will punish us for this blasphemy?”
Achilles laughs, mouth still full, before he releases him with a pop. He throws his lustrous hair back over his shoulder, careless and proud, then pushes himself back up on his knees to straddle him. He shifts his weight over Patroclus’ lap, and Patroclus revels in the wonderful pressure. Achilles lathers fragrant oil over Patroclus’ cock, then carefully, slowly, he sinks down on him, relishing every inch of the stretch.
Achilles’ eyes fall closed as he starts rocking on top of him, his pink and luscious lips parting on a sigh, and he glows so sharply in the half dark like a wondrous, forbidden thing. Patroclus knows that whatever sacrilege they have committed is worth it, if this is the reward.
The amphora tips over Achilles’ lips when he lifts it, and then those lips are on Patroclus’, flooding his mouth with rich dark wine.
“If this is blasphemous,” Achilles whispers into their hard, heady, burning kiss, “then I don’t want to be pious.”
He quickens his pace, taking Patroclus deeper yet and faster with every roll of his hips. Patroclus surrenders, and lets the fires consume him.
The morning finds them in a tangled heap on the ruined bedding.
There’s a faint, pulsing ache behind Patroclus’ eyelids. The sweet tang of the wine lingers in the air, hours after the amphora has been emptied. On the crisp linen sheets there are dark purple wine stains, evidence of their indulgence the previous night.
Patroclus glances down at Achilles, his face planted in Patroclus’ armpit and his hair a wild heap that half covers Patroclus’ face and chest. He groans when Patroclus pokes his shoulder.
“Stop moving so much, will you,” Achilles says in a hoarse, nasal voice.
“My, someone’s cranky this morning.”
“My head is killing me.” Achilles groans again, burrowing deeper into the crook of Patroclus’ underarm. “Go and tell the Myrmidons that their King won’t be riding out to battle today. They can all take the day off.”
“I’ll tell them that their King has a royal hangover,” Patroclus says, which rouses Achilles enough for him to raise his head and glower at him through the curtain of golden hair.
“I don’t have a hangover. I’ve never had a hangover in my life.”
“That’s because you never drink, love,” Patroclus chuckles.
Achilles rolls his eyes, which makes him wince and drop his head on Patroclus’ chest. He mumbles something under his breath that Patroclus can’t quite decipher.
“What was that?”
“I said, it was worth it,” Achilles murmurs.
Patroclus combs his fingers through his tangled locks. The drowsy sounds of the camp stirring awake reach them distantly through the leather panels of the tent.
“Would you do it again then?”
“Mmhm.” Achilles takes a deep breath of Patroclus’ scent and lets out a deep purr like a large feline, relaxing into him. “And again. And again.” He kisses a lazy path up Patroclus’ chest and buries his face in the crook of his neck. “Just give me a day to get over this blasted headache, yes? Maybe two.”
Patroclus smiles and nods in assent, kissing his forehead even as he knows Achilles won’t be stepping anywhere near undiluted wine any time soon. “Looking forward to it.”