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Over a thousand lifetimes, and a thousand more, I’ll choose you.
I’ll always choose you.
The cerulean blue sea is quiet as it laps against the shore, gentle as it washes the dirt from Patroclus’ feet. It calms him, stills the shaking of his bloodstained hands and lulls him into a blissful kind of serenity. Pa-tro-clus. He leans back into the warm chest behind him, lets his head loll onto a strong, firm shoulder.
“Let us wash away the blood.” Achilles says.
Patroclus moves forward at the gentle push to the base of his spine, wades into the warm water until the tips of his toes are his only tethers to the earth. He turns slowly and looks into eyes of emerald and gold and he floats, floats away to a faraway place, a cave with a starlit sky and a boy who shines brighter than the sun.
He watches as Achilles lets himself sink until his mouth and nose fall below the water; his eyes are sharp as they fix on Patroclus’ face. It is like being set aflame, being under that watchful gaze, the eyes of a man spun by sunlight and gold. Patroclus reaches out to touch, but pauses, shrinking beneath the intensity with which Achilles continues to watch.
“What is it that you are looking at?” Patroclus asks.
Achilles rises out of the water with a short gasp, bobs above the ocean’s surface, his chiseled chest revealed for just a moment before disappearing again into the cerulean depths. He pushes the wet strands of his darkened hair away from his face and reaches for Patroclus, his hands steady and sure. You. Always you.
Patroclus’ breath hitches as Achilles takes ahold of his hands, lifts them out of the water, presses a kiss to the insides of his wrists. His lips are scorching against his cool, vulnerable skin. They’re hotter than iron, branding Patroclus as his. Yes, Patroclus thinks. Make me yours. Make me yours a thousand times over.
Their lips meet and open under one another, their tongues meeting, sweet as molasses. Patroclus shakes as goosebumps rise on his skin, gasps for breath when Achilles’ mouth descends, his teeth nipping along his jaw and down the column of his throat. Patroclus swells against him; Achilles’ touch turning him inside out, a shock running through him all the way to his fingers and toes. Achilles, he thinks. Oh, Achilles. My beautiful Achilles.
“You were frightened today.” Achilles says.
“Only everyday.”
“Patroclus.”
“You’re not hurt though.”
“Of course not.”
“You did not bleed?”
“No. Just blanketed in the rain of the dead.”
Patroclus breathes out and presses his hands reverently against Achilles’ chest, runs those hands down, down, down until they’re cupping his hips, thumbs pressing into the crease of hip and thigh. “And Hector?”
“His heart is steady in his chest.”
“I am glad.”
Achilles hooks a finger beneath Patroclus’ chin and tilts his head up until their eyes meet again. Then he presses forwards, their mouths meeting once more. The prophecy hangs over them, draping them with fear and desperation, so they kiss harder, deeper, try to get closer, closer, closer until they forge into one being. Patroclus clings to Achilles with fingertips that bruise and nails that cut deep. He gasps out, his head falling back as Achilles seeks the source of his pleasure, wraps around and twists at the silken length. Patroclus doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough. There will never be enough time. It hurts. Achilles’ voice, a lover’s whisper, saying Pa-tro-clus against his sun kissed skin. It hurts sharper than a blade to the skin, an arrow to the heart, a spear to the head. Oh, but Patroclus would die a thousand times over for this.
“Let us lie down.” Patroclus begs.
Achilles lifts Patroclus in his arms, smoothes his hands down the back of his thighs and hooks them into the crooks of his knees. His thumbs rub against the sensitive skin there as he carries Patroclus to shore. He is gentle as he rests him to the ground, reverent as he lets his hands drift across his lover’s body. Patroclus can do nothing but watch, his heart beating heavily in his chest. Achilles.
Achilles lowers himself down, pulling Patroclus' legs apart so he can settle between them. They both huff out a breath as their cocks brush together, the meeting of hot flesh sending shockwaves through them, through and into one another. Achilles kisses him and kisses him, sweet and precious and worshipful. Patroclus arches and squirms, the pleasure building as Achilles rolls his hips down harder and faster on each turn. He watches as Achilles’ eye flutter open and closed, his long, golden eyelashes brushing against his cheeks, casting small shadows. The crease between Achilles’ brow and the slackness of his mouth, signs of greatest pleasure, are pleasure enough for Patroclus. There’s a building and a building, but he fights it; he’s not ready for this moment to end. He twists his fingers in the tangled tresses of Achilles’ hair and tugs, tugs for the loud cry it pulls from deep within Achilles’ throat. He leans up and presses kisses to his face: his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, his chin.
“It’ll never be enough.” Achilles says almost desperately, his eyes opening widely as he looks down.
“Never.” Patroclus says, and it’s a promise.
Achilles’ eyes squeeze shut again and he moves with a new vigor, chasing his release now, a new desperation taking over. Patroclus stares up at his lover, at the golden halo of his hair, the bronzed skin, the supple red lips. He looks up and he keens, squeezes his thighs on either side of Achilles’ waist. It won’t be long now, he thinks. He wraps a hand around the back of Achilles’ neck and pulls him down to kiss, the hot furnaces of their open mouths soldering them together, the brush of their tongues sending shivers down their spines. Patroclus could cry with it, does cry with it. But like every time, like always, Achilles is there to soothe the hurt. He kisses away the tears that have begun to fall and moves slower, dragging it out, pulling every whine and whimper from Patroclus’ open mouth.
“Together.” Achilles half moans against Patroclus’ shoulder.
“Yes.”
Achilles rolls and rocks and grinds and suddenly it becomes too much. That feeling that had been blooming inside Patroclus crests and peaks and he falls over with a cry, his world shattering around him in the most divine flash of color, of glory. He trembles and trembles, breaking apart from the inside out, but his eyes stay open, watch with rapture as Achilles tumbles over that edge with him, hips twitching, seed spilling, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Then he collapses, his head tucking beneath Patroclus’ chin, and he breathes out a shuddering breath.
Hours seem to pass by on the empty beach, their bodies warm under the summer sun. Achilles presses soft kisses to his chin, his neck, his chest. He breathes a pleasant zephyr that tells Patroclus that, yes, he’s alive, he’s here, he’s with you.
“Swear you won’t die tomorrow.” Patroclus demands.
“I swear it.”
“And swear you’ll stay with me. Always.”
Achilles pushes himself up and dips to join their mouths together. “Always. I’ll be by your side Patroclus. In this life and the next.”
“And the one after that?”
“A thousand lifetimes. I’ll be there.”
Patroclus looks up and smiles, and the light of the sun smiles back at him. I’ll be there.