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There were times that Patroclus felt dreadfully boring compared to Achilles. Since school had ended, he had worked the shop, coming home every day to the sound of an empty house. His father barely left home, and when Patroclus finally had it in him he had left, with only the month’s wages to tide him over.
It was a lonely existence. But, he remarked as he looked out over the city, it’s not any lonelier than it’s ever been. He had a shelf over the table with all the cups he had collected over the years, a dishwasher of his own, a coffee table stained with use. All the little things that were his. And in the spring, Achilles had returned, bringing his city ways with him.
Patroclus was careful to fit every dish in the small dishwasher. The cups, stained with black tea, were the first he ran under the water. The plate which had held numerous pastries and the bowl cleared of dried fruit were stacked away, to be washed tomorrow. He turned off the tap. Achilles came up behind him.
For a moment, the only sound was the ticking of the clock. Achilles’ hands came up to his arms. He leant back and set his head on his shoulder. It was starting to get cold at night. Just that time of year.
“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if my father had never sold his house?”
He held him close. That was Achilles’ way; a part of him always lived in the past. Patroclus stretched his neck to look back at him. The darkness surrounded him, pressing close. Somehow, it was never quite enough to hide the slope of his nose, where Automedon had socked him good when they were boys.
Patroclus brought his hand up to trace the set of his jaw, the bump on his nose. Achilles stilled his movements, locking their hands in place. Their eyes met.
“No,” Patroclus kissed him, just at the corner of his lips, “I don’t have to. Not now.”
Achilles huffed, taking Patroclus’ hand. Covering it with both of his. “Come to bed,” the look in his eyes was warm, “You’re already so cold.”
Patroclus eyed the coats draped over the armchair, the newspaper on the table. He sighed. “Okay.”
Achilles pushed the chairs under the table on his way, and Patroclus went with him. The window was left barely ajar. Patroclus threw himself onto the bed. The light of the street lamps was dulled just enough that the glow was comforting. The hem of Achilles’ pants brushed his leg, and all in one moment the cold seeped in.
They shared a look. The covers were soft against his cheek, turning him all soft and sleepy.
”Come here.”
Achilles’ fingers splayed across his jaw. Patroclus struggled to keep his eyes open, laying his head on Achilles’ shoulder. There was a look about him, like there was something just on the tip of his tongue.
The wind whirled outside. His head dropped further, Achilles caught him as he slipped. Patroclus drifted. The dark night went on.
* * * *
The air was thick around him. Patroclus slipped out of bed, squinting in the darkness. Moonlight seeped through the curtains. He had to stand in the midst of it, fighting to open the window more. It was always jammed.
Patroclus was left feeling worse than before. The breeze did little to stave off the sweltering feeling. He ran hot at night, but this was simply ridiculous.
“It will be over in a week.” The whispered words made him feel all the hotter. Retreating to the bed, he glared at the window.
“Everything just has to have it out for me.”
Achilles, who was subjected to Patroclus choosing not to take the long way round, groaned. “Go back to sleep,” there was a pause, in which the sound of Patroclus turning the pillow and throwing off the covers reverberated, “and stop rocking the bed.”
Patroclus exhaled through his nose. More shuffling. Finally, Achilles’ hand shot out to still him. He groaned again, rolling over. The heat exuding from his body was scorching.
“Achilles,” he moaned, “I am going to break out in hives!”
They were facing each other now. Patroclus batted away Achilles’ hand (Achilles not being privy to the reason for this) and covered his face, flustered all the same. Achilles’ eyes shot open, his hand suspended in the air between them.
“Patroclus?” Achilles blinked, and all traces of sleep cleared from his eyes. Taking in his surroundings, a mild look of consternation appeared on his face. He looked into Patroclus' eyes.
For his part, he felt he would melt from the shame and heat both.
“Stop acting like a child.” Unfortunately, his mumbling did not escape Achilles, who cautiously brought his hand back, brushing the back of it against Patroclus’ cheeks and neck, before catching his jaw.
He softened.
“You’re warm.” There was nowhere else to look. Patroclus shifted. Achilles let go, then pushed himself off the bed, leaving him to languish in the humidity.
Sighing, he brought a hand to his flushed cheeks, then raised himself upon his elbows. Achilles was as quick to return as he had been to leave. At Patroclus’ movement, he went to still him.
“Here,” he pressed a wet rag into his hands. It was cool against his skin, and there was the ghost of a smile on his lips as Achilles folded his hands over it. He kept his hands there for a moment, before pulling away to grab something just out of sight.
Patroclus blinked in the darkness. There was a glint in Achilles’ eye and a ridiculous expression on his face. He held onto the cup, without speaking. Patroclus was helpless not to take the bait, reaching out. For just a moment, Achilles did not let go. It was pleasantly cool. The condensation tingled against his skin. Without speaking, something passed between them.
“Cordial?” Achilles’ eyes crinkled in a smile.
“You know you love it.” Outside, a car passed in the silence. “Besides, it’s distracting you from your predicament,” there was a lazy smile on his face, “isn’t it?”
Patroclus swatted his arm. “Why would you remind me?” But he found that the awful, creeping sensation had subsided, between the wet rag thrown around his neck and the cold seeping into his veins from the cup. Extricating himself from the covers certainly hadn’t hurt, but after all this time, he wouldn’t give Achilles the pleasure of saying so.
Tapping at his glass, he found Achilles’ gaze drawn to it. He narrowed his eyes, bringing it closer to himself and away from Achilles. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” was Achilles’ reply. Still, his eyes roved upwards. “But you’re making me thirsty.”
Patroclus made a disapproving sound. Heat prickled at his skin, spreading from the base of his throat. In quick succession, Achilles set down the pitcher and rose to his feet. He returned brandishing a bottle, then poured a glass. As Patroclus brought the cup to his lips, Achilles brushed up against him, a twinkle in his eyes. “So you cool down properly.”
Patroclus flushed. Achilles made a disgruntled oomph as he was shoved back on the bed. Satisfied, Patroclus made to sink back into the pleasantly cool bed. A pair of hands crept out from under the covers, and a pair of strong arms seized him around the middle. He found himself thrown up against Achilles’ chest, swallowed up by the comforter. A pleasant heat radiated up between them, and Achilles smiled lazily. His eyes closed of their own accord.
“Achilles,” he complained half heartedly, “it’s warm.”
“Baby,” Achilles nuzzled closer, “your hands are cold as ice.” Bringing the hands in question to his lips, he sighed. “Do you want me to get rid of the comforter?”
Patroclus hummed. He didn’t much fancy the idea of speaking, all bundled up. Achilles carefully extracted most of the covers from him.
He brought Achilles’ arms back around his chest, bracketing them both. “Don’t get up early tomorrow. Stay in bed with me.” Every breath fanned out over Patroclus’ shoulder. “Achilles?”
“Did you need something?” His voice was thick with sleep, flagging at last. “Patroclus?”
Pressing his cheek into the pillow, Patroclus shifted. “It’s nothing.” Achilles remained draped over his side. “This is nice, love.”
Just like at the end of a long day, Achilles was fast asleep, and Patroclus was quick to follow.