Archive of Our Own

He's out running one morning in early fall when he spots a body on the ground. Patroclus slows, hesitant, and sees it's a boy his own age, wrapped in an approximation of a toga. The boy is facedown on the grass lawn of a frat house, blonde hair sticking in several different directions, and Patroclus approaches him with a grimace at the obvious smell of booze drifting off of him. He checks his watch – much too early to think he'll be late to work – and stops next to the boy, kicking him gently.

“Hey,” he says, voice loud in the stillness of the morning. When there's no answer, he kicks again, harder. “Wake up, asshole.”

“Whose dulcet tones do mine ears perceive?” the boy grumbles, voice rough from sleep, and Patroclus jumps back. The boy curls in on himself for a moment, and Patroclus is just about to kick him again when he shifts, rolling onto his back. Green eyes blink open and focus blearily on Patroclus. “Baby, just five more minutes,” the boy says, trying for sultry and missing, and Patroclus snorts.

“You're lying in the grass in a toga made out of a bedsheet,” he states, voice flat, and the boy attempts a glare. “You're not really the epitome of sex right now.” Satisfied the boy is fine, he starts walking away.

“Hey!” the boy shouts, and Patroclus stops, turning. He's sat up now, leaning back on his hands, and some part of Patroclus registers that this boy could be very attractive – probably with a shower, and something approaching real clothing. “To whom do I owe my thanks for saving my sorry ass?”

Patroclus snorts again and says, “You were just passed out in the grass. I was just making sure you weren't dead.” The boy frowns and Patroclus makes to leave again.

“Seriously, bro, what's your name?” the boy calls after him, and Patroclus just turns and glares at him.

“I'm late to work,” he says, and jogs off, leaving the boy sitting in the middle of the grass.

Two days later, Patroclus pushes open the door from the back of the coffeeshop, holding two large bags of beans in his hands, and promptly drops one when he sees the boy at the counter, dressed in some god-awful neon pink muscle shirt and a backwards purple cap and talking to Briseis with a wide, carefree smile. Both of them turn to Patroclus when the bag bursts on the floor, sending coffee beans skittering across the floor, and Patroclus turns bright red before escaping to the back.

He very gently places the beans on the back counter, calming his beating heart, and listens at the door. He hears the boy laughing at something, the sound of Briseis making coffee, and then silence. He waits a moment longer, just to be sure the boy is gone, and creaks open the door, risking a look at the front counter.

“Hey,” says the boy, grinning broadly and toasting him with a cup of coffee. His shirt actually says “Cool story, bro”. Briseis is leaning back against their side of the counter, looking smug, and Patroclus closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath.

“Can I help you?” he asks, as close to cold as he can get away with, and the boy's smile grows wider until it's almost dazzling.

“I didn't expect to find my saviour working the local cafe,” he says, and Patroclus wills down the blush threatening to rise in his cheeks.

“I didn't save you,” he grits out, and he can hear Briseis smothering laughter.

“Whatever, Pat,” the boy answers, and Patroclus glares at him. “Your nametag, dude,” he adds, laughing now, and Patroclus hastily covers the thing.

“Don't call me that,” he hisses, and the boy holds up his hands placatingly.

“Hey, no, I get it, my mother saddled me with the name Achilles,” he says, grinning again. Patroclus works on ignoring him, staring down at the counter and busily moving things around.

When the boy – Achilles – doesn't leave, Patroclus glares at him again and asks, “What do you want?”

Achilles seems taken aback for a moment, eyes wide with surprise, before he slips back into an easy grin. “Your number,” he says, and Patroclus gapes.

“No,” he says automatically, and Achilles shrugs, no big deal, and turns towards the exit.

“Worth a shot,” he says, and leaves with one last grin at Patroclus. As the door swings shut behind him, Patroclus turns, grabs a broom, and starts sweeping up the beans he'd spilled.

“Okay, you can't just act like that didn't happen,” Briseis says behind him, and really, Patroclus thinks, she's lucky it's not a busy day, because she's still leaning with her back against the counter, ignoring the shop to stare at him, a delighted grin lighting up her dark face.

“What?” he asks, reaching down to scoop up the beans on the floor if only to avoid the look on her face.

“His saviour?” she prompts, and Patroclus looks at her. “Don't glare at me,” she tells him, and he turns away, pouting.

“I found him passed out on the lawn of some frat house or other, P-something, while I was running a few days ago. All I did was wake him up and make sure he wasn't dead,” he says.

“He wanted your number,” she says, and Patroclus glares at her.

“You don't have to sound so surprised.”

Briseis snorts. “No offense, Patroclus, but that boy was way too hot.”

Patroclus rolls his eyes and starts in on a basic coffee. If he's going to have to deal with this, he might as well get something out of it. “He was joking anyways,” he says, and can't help the bitter tone.

“Hey,” Briseis says, and he pauses. “I won't tease you about it anymore, promise.”

He looks at her, dark brown eyes wide and solemn, and finally nods. “Okay,” he says, and takes a sip of his coffee, grimacing at the taste.

“Here,” she says gently, elbowing him aside and grabbing his cup. “You don't like black coffee, you dork.”

Patroclus is out running the next morning, mustard yellow beanie Briseis had knitted him pulled low over his dark curls, when he hears shoes on the sidewalk that aren't his own. He half turns, slowing – and immediately turns back, speeding up as much as he can. Achilles keeps pace easily, toned legs bared to the chilly air. The two of them race silently around campus, Patroclus pushing himself to go faster and Achilles loping along beside him. When they finally reach Ithica, Patroclus is panting and trying really hard not to show it.

“Hey, great run!” Achilles calls after him as he unlocks the door and slips inside. “Maybe tomorrow we can pick up the pace a little!” When Patroclus looks back, however, Achilles has already run off, and Patroclus doubles over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath.

When Ithaca opens an hour later, Achilles is the first person in line for coffee. Patroclus takes one look at his grinning face and escapes to the back, leaving Briseis to deal with the few morning regulars there to get coffee at five in the morning. He busies himself with making cookie batch after cookie batch, until another hour has passed and he knows Briseis is going to need his help with the real morning rush.

Achilles grins at him from a window table as he carries five trays of cookies out and places them on the counter. A crowd is just starting to swell in the shop, but Achilles pushes his way to the counter to watch as Patroclus places cookie after cookie in the display case. When he's done, he looks up and Achilles grins at him again.

“Can I help you?” he asks, voice flat.

“Did it hurt?” Achilles asks instead of answering, and Patroclus frowns at him, confused.

“Did what hurt?”

“When you fell from heaven,” Achilles tells him, grin impossibly wide, and Patroclus almost faceplants on the counter.

“You might try asking Satan that,” he says dryly, and Achilles throws his head back and laughs. Patroclus just continues to watch him, confused.

“Awesome. Can I get your number?” Achilles finally asks, and Patroclus shakes his head.

“Nice try, but no.”

“Right on, Pat,” Achilles says, holding out his hand for a fistbump. When Patroclus doesn't return the gesture, he just shrugs and winds his way through the crowds and out of the cafe.

“Don't call me Pat,” Patroclus calls after him, too late.

“Patroclus, instead of drooling after your hunk of meat, would you mind helping me out?” Briseis snaps, and Patroclus turns to start the orders she gives him.

Achilles is at the end of Patroclus' street the next morning, neon orange muscle shirt and neon yellow shorts shining under the streetlight. He's bouncing on his toes, waiting and grinning, and Patroclus sighs heavily before running past him. The two of them set off in tandem, Patroclus pushing himself to move faster the entire way. Achilles keeps up easily.

He's the first person in line again, and Patroclus grimaces but moves forward. Better to get this over with now.

“Coffee?” he asks, and Achilles grins.

“Are your legs tired?” Patroclus just glares, daring him to finish it. “Because you've been running through my mind all day,” Achilles finishes, smug.

“What kind of coffee do you want,” Patroclus says, and the smile on Achilles' face falters for just a moment before it's back, full-force.

“Yeah, can I get a caramel latte, skim milk, with an extra shot of caramel, Pat?” he asks, and Patroclus busies himself making it, ignoring the other boy until he hands the drink over. Achilles takes it, sips it, nods approvingly, and leaves.

“Stop calling me that,” Patroclus mutters once he's gone and then busies himself getting into the rhythm of churning out caffeinated drink after drink.

The next morning, Achilles is on the sidewalk outside of Patroclus' dorm, waiting for him in neon green and pink. Patroclus shakes his head but the two of them start their run, Achilles matching every burst of speed Patroclus can dredge out of himself.

“Hey, Pat, do you have a mirror in your pants?” Achilles asks him, grinning, when Patroclus hands him his coffee – something with lime in it today, and Patroclus shudders at the thought of how it might taste.

“Don't call me that,” he says in return.

Achilles just smiles wider and says, “Cause I can really see myself in them.”

Next morning, same thing – run in silence, Patroclus pushing himself, and then, in the cafe - “Apart from being sexy, what do you do for a living?” “You're literally taking coffee from me in the cafe where I work.” “Oh, uh, shit, right.” Rinse and repeat.

A week passes, and suddenly Patroclus is finishing his run ten minutes faster.

“What do you want?” Patroclus asks before Achilles even has time to open his mouth.

“Are you a lumberjack?” he asks, and Patroclus just rolls his eyes.

“For god's sake, Achilles, I work in a coffeeshop. You're standing in it. I'm asking you what kind of coffee you want. Can you just stop with the pick up lines already?” he almost shouts back, and Achilles' smile drops.

“Can I get something with chocolate please?” he asks, suddenly morose, and Patroclus hesitates, guilt tugging at him, before shrugging it off and making some monstrous cup of chocolate and whipped cream that's really more sugar than it is coffee.

“Here,” he says, handing it over. Achilles takes a sip and his eyes roll back as he lets out a moan. Patroclus shifts, uncomfortable, but Achilles doesn't seem to notice.

“If you were a lumberjack, you'd be giving me wood,” he says, rushing it out, and Patroclus could swear he blushes but it's probably just because of how cold it is outside.

“Go lift weights,” he says, and Achilles grins again, skipping out of the shop with his cup clutched in both hands.

“You're so mean to him,” Briseis observes, eyes studiously down on the pattern she's attempting to draw in the foam of her current cup. It's a maple leaf, veins and all, and Patroclus almost wants to take a picture before it's ruined.

“He's just teasing anyhow,” he says, and turns to the back to bring out a tray of scones.

The next morning, Patroclus wakes up with the mother of all coughs. He curls in on himself, eyes watering as he tries very hard not to cough up a lung, and he's just starting to feel like he might not die of asphyxiation when there's a knock at his door. He glares from the couch he'd passed out on the night before and croaks out “Yeah, come in, door's – cough – open.”

The door opens, revealing not Briseis like he would have expected but Achilles, backwards cap on and finally wearing leggings – god-awful, bright yellow leggings – under his pink shorts. “Hey Pat, got a little concerned after like-” he checks his phone “- thirty minutes, you okay?”

“Don't call me-” Patroclus starts, but the rest of the sentence is lost in a fit of coughing.

“Hey hey hey, woah dude, slow down, breathe,” Achilles is telling him a moment later, hand rubbing his back, and Patroclus can't bring himself to flinch away from the other boy's warmth. The coughing fit subsides and he feels Achilles root around the couch until he produces Patroclus' phone. “Is the barista chick in here? What's her name?” he asks, and Patroclus scrolls through his contacts to find Briseis' name. Achilles moves away with his phone and Patroclus, weak and feeling cold, huddles back into the arm of the couch.

“Hey, Brih- uh, Briseis? Hey, this is Achilles – no, I just got here – yeah, Pat's sick,” Achilles is saying, and Patroclus let's his voice flow over him until he's startled by a hand against his forehead. “Yeah, a cough and a fever. Yeah, I don't think he'll be in today. Sure. Kay, you too.” The phone is placed on Patroclus' chest and he blinks at first it and then Achilles as the boy settles into a crouch in front of him. Achilles grins. “You're super sick,” he says.

“I don't need your help,” Patroclus tells him.

“Yeah, I'll just go then, leave you to die here alone,” Achilles says, and Patroclus starts nodding – it sounds reasonable – but stops when Achilles snorts and adds, “Uhuh, as if. You got a bed, right?”

“In there,” Patroclus admits, rolling his head in the direction of his room.

“Righteous. Alright, put your arms around my neck,” is all the warning Achilles gives him before scooping him up and carrying him, bridal style, to the bedroom. Patroclus is too weak to object. He's gently lowered to the bed and covered liberally by blankets until he finally, finally, stops shivering.

“I'll be back in a bit,” Achilles tells him, and Patroclus tries to muster up a glare that says leave and don't come back, but Achilles just laughs and leaves the room. Patroclus falls into a restless sleep.

True to his word, Achilles does come back, and dumps an entire armload of cough medicine on Patroclus, startling him awake. “I gotcha some stuff,” Achilles tells him, grinning smugly, and Patroclus weakly flips him off. He struggles to sit up while Achilles busies himself measuring out the right amount of something thick and yellow. “Here, works better than dayquil, and it tastes better,” he says, and gives Patroclus the cup. Patroclus glares at it suspiciously for a moment before downing the whole thing and humming in surprise at the taste of honey.

“Thanks,” he rasps, and Achilles just nods, grabbing a can from the pile on the bed and leaving the room. Patroclus can hear him in the small kitchen as he fishes a bag of cough drops out of his blankets, opening them and popping one in his mouth. His throat already feels better, and he sits back against the headboard, resting, until Achilles comes back with a bowl of something steaming.

“Gotta stay hydrated,” the blond boy says, and gently passes Patroclus the bowl of soup and a spoon. Patroclus starts spooning it into his mouth unsteadily and Achilles sits on the bed, watching him eat. “Feeling any better yet?” he finally asks, impatient, and Patroclus pauses with the spoon halfway to his mouth.

“Uh, yeah. Thanks,” he says, and Achilles nods.

“Did you have any classes today?” he asks, and Patroclus frowns, thinking.

“Just English and Maths,” he says, and moves to open the drawer next to his bed. Achilles stops him with a warm hand on his arm and Patroclus fights the urge to lean into it. “My schedule's in there,” he says, and Achilles leans over him to dig it out.

“Oh, yeah, I know where these are, I'll get your homework for you,” Achilles tells him, drawing back, and some part of Patroclus mourns the loss of his heat.

“They're not til later,” he says, instead of “Please just lay next to me forever”.

“Right on,” Achilles replies, and crawls up to the headboard, planting himself firmly next to Patroclus and reaching out to pick a book off his tiny bookshelf. Patroclus just stares at him as he reads until he finally looks up and says, “What?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Patroclus asks him, and winces at his own honesty. Achilles just grins at him again.

“You're my friend, dude. Gotta take care of your friends.”

Patroclus looks down to hide the sudden blush on his face. Friend? “What about your other friends at the frat house? Do you take care of them when they're sick, too?” he asks, petulent.

“Yeah, dude, we all take care of each other. Bro's gotta have another bro's back,” Achilles answers easily, and then pauses. “Although usually we already have the kinda stuff you should have for when you're sick.” He grins at Patroclus again. “Now you're stocked up for next time.”

Patroclus pats at his soup with his spoon, thinking. He's been teasing me like a jerk for a week and now he says we're friends. He shakes his head and starts eating the soup again, until exhaustion takes over and the last thing his mind registers is Achilles gently taking the bowl out of his hands.

He wakes up and it's dark outside. He coughs hard, reaching out automatically for the honey syrup still on his nightstand, and takes a dose of it. The coughing peters off and he gulps down water before looking around the empty bedroom, disoriented for a moment. The other side of his bed is cold, but there's a note left at the foot of it, on top of a stack of papers, and he reaches for it, grimacing at the math homework underneath.

Hey Pat!

Here's my number, text me when you wake up so I know you're alive!

~Ace

Patroclus snorts, adding the number to his phone and then locking it again. “Nice try, asshole.”

It takes him three days to get over his cough, and Achilles keeps dropping by to give him his homework for the day. For the most part, the two of them sit in silence, eating the takeout Achilles brings, but sometimes they talk.

So far, Patroclus has learned the following about Achilles:

• He doesn't get along with either of his parents, but

• he lives with his dad when he's not at school, and

• his dad pays for college and

• the frat house he lives in was named by his dad

• (but really, does Achilles want to follow in his dad's footsteps?)

• (honestly, he's not sure he does, but)

• (what would he do instead?)

Patroclus suggests being a male model and Achilles laughs so hard he snorts soda out of his nose. It's humanizing, which is both awesome – after their runs, Patroclus was half-convinced Achilles was secretly a god – and terrible – god, if he's human , he's touchable , now isn't he?

When Patroclus finally feels well enough to run again, Achilles even takes it easy on him, slowing down and letting him catch his breath at every corner. Patroclus pushes himself, determined to keep up with himself if nothing else, but he can't help the coughing fits, and every time he doubles over, elbows braced on his thighs, Achilles gets this look on his face like he's not sure if he should call 911 or run to the nearest house for help, and Patroclus wheezes out a laugh each time – worry is not an expression that sits naturally on Achilles' face.

“You look constipated like that,” Patroclus finally tells him, and Achilles' worry morphs into an offended pout.

“I'm a very attractive young man,” he states, and Patroclus dissolves into another coughing fit.

Patroclus goes back to work the next day and Achilles is the first person in line once again. As soon as Patroclus moves to the register, he leans on the counter, grinning, and says, “Hi, I'm an astronaut. My next mission is to expl-”

“I swear to god, Achilles, if you finish that sentence I will never give you coffee again,” Patroclus interrupts loudly, hands covering his face, and Achilles just laughs.

“Vanilla latte with extra vanilla, please. Oh, and if you could add whipped cream and sprinkles to that?”

“Hey Pat!” Achilles calls as soon as Patroclus walks into the front of the coffee shop. He's carrying two trays of scones and only months of training keeps him from dropping them when he jumps at Achilles' voice.

“Don't you have a class to be at?” Patroclus asks, and he knows it's true; Achilles is supposed to have some ancient mythology class right now, not approaching the counter to lean on it with his elbows and grin his stupid grin, shades pushed up high on his nose.

“Canceled today. I have a question for you,” he says, following when Patroclus moves to the display case and starts gently placing scones inside.

“Whatever it is, the answer is no,” Patroclus tells him, and Achilles groans and drapes himself over the glass of the display case dramatically.

“Come oooooonnn, don't be such a stick in the mud,” Achilles moans, and Patroclus rolls his eyes and keeps placing scones. Achilles leans down until they're face to face through the glass, his face warping through it, and says, “My frat house is throwing a party tomorrow night and I think it'd be really cool if you would come.”

Patroclus pauses in putting the scones away. He's not exactly popular on campus; everyone knows him because he works at the coffee shop, nothing else. “Why me?”

Achilles stands up again, leaning over the display case to look down at Patroclus. “Cause you're my friend, and it's a friends party.” He grins.

Patroclus reaches out and shoves him back. “Fine,” he says, and stands, dusting off his pants as Achilles leans on the counter again.

“You'll come? Really? For sure?” he asks excitedly, and whoops when Patroclus nods with a wry smile.

“Now go, I know you have other classes today,” he says, shooing Achilles away.

Patroclus can hear music a block away from Achilles' house, something with an insistent beat, and he can see lights in all the windows. Cars are parked everywhere, several of them haphazardly on the lawns, and college kids are sprawled everywhere, trash scattered among them as they group off, drinking out of red cups. Patroclus picks his way carefully through them, ignoring the way the grass squelches under his shoes, and walks up the steps to the porch, hands held over his ears. The sign above the open door just says Phthia, and Patroclus stares at it for a moment before heading inside.

There are people everywhere inside, throbbing to the music, and Patroclus pushed his way through, wincing at every accidental contact, to look for Achilles. He finally spots him, surrounded by people and animatedly telling some story. Patroclus is across the room, hesitating, when Achilles spots him and waves him over, grinning.

“Hector, this is the guy I was telling you about, this is Pat,” Achilles shouts to be heard over the music, bouncing in place excitedly.

“Don't call me that!” Patroclus yells back, and the guy next to Achilles, Hector, holds out his hand. Patroclus shakes it warily, and Hector smiles at him, using their joined hands to reel him in closer.

“Ace has told me a lot about you,” he says, close to Patroclus' ear, and Patroclus can't help shuddering a little.

He pulls back and shouts, “Unfortunately, I haven't heard anything about you.”

“I knew y'all would get along!” Achilles tells them both, and hugs them before bounding off through the crowd, leaving Patroclus surrounded by the group of Phthians.

“So you're the faggot that Ace has been hangin' with?” one of them asks, baring his teeth at Patroclus, and he backs off, confused.

“Don't be rude, Aggy,” Hector says, quietly enough Patroclus almost can't hear him.

Aggy thrusts his finger into Patroclus' chest, pushing him back. “Are you trying to corrupt him?” he asks angrily, and Patroclus, confused, shakes his head.

“Relax, Ag,” another of the boys says. “No way this twink could hope to get Ace.”

“Anyways, we know he's straight,” Hector adds, glancing at his friends meaningfully, and something in Patroclus just shuts down.

“You should stay away from him,” Aggy threatens, and they surround Patroclus.

“I'm not trying to-” Patroclus starts, but he's cut off from saying more when Achilles bounds back up to them, precariously carrying seven cups.

“Hey, what's up?” he shouts, smile dimming at Patroclus' face, but Patroclus ignores him, pushing his way through the crowd to get outside. It's too hot in the house, too close and stifling, and when he finally gets through the front door, he takes a deep, steadying breath of cool air before he starts running, and running, and running.

He's hiding in the back of the coffee shop the next day when Briseis comes back to find him. She sighs when she sees him huddled under a shelf, trying very hard to go unnoticed. “Dude, why the angst?” she asks gently, crouching down next to him.

“Don't you have customers?” he asks her in response, and she settles cross-legged on the floor.

“Tell me what's up.”

Patroclus picks at the fraying hem of his faded green hoodie, keeping his eyes down as he says, “Achilles invited me to a party last night and his friends called me a faggot.” Briseis hums. “They said I was trying to corrupt him or something,” he adds, and she reaches out a hand to place it on his arm.

“What did Achilles say to this?” she asks, and he shakes his head. “Ah. You haven't asked him.” He nods, and she sighs. “Hence the hiding in the back.”

“What if he thinks I am trying to corrupt him into being gay?” Patroclus moans despairingly, and squawks in indignation when Briseis snorts and ruffles his hair.

“Patroclus, the way he looks at you, I'd be worried he means to corrupt you to a life of sinning and gayness,” she tells him wryly, and he looks up at her, surprised.

“What?”

“What, you really think he comes in here every day at five in the morning and gives you another pickup line because he's just trying to be friends?” She snorts again. “Why do you think he started running with you? He knew your route because he asked me while you weren't here. Jesus, Patroclus, talk to the boy.”

Patroclus scrambles up, hastily dusting himself off. “Is he here right now?” he asks, but Briseis stills him with a hand on his shoulder.

“He left after an hour and a half of moping and telling me I got his drink wrong,” she tells him. “You utter dorks, the both of you.”

There's a knock at his door the next morning, right as he's about to leave for his three am run. Patroclus stills with his hand on the doorknob, takes a deep breath; there's only one person who would be knocking on his door at three in the morning. He opens it too quickly, obviously catching Achilles unaware, because Achilles' fist stops an inch from knocking on his nose.

“Oh,” Achilles says, startled, and his face breaks out in a wide grin. Patroclus feels butterflies swirl in his insides and tries to tamp down on them. “Hey, I missed ypu yesterday, and you left my party really fast, was something up?” Achilles asks him, concern now filtering into his expression, and Patroclus, praying he hasn't got this wrong, that Briseis is right, steps forward, grabs Achilles by the collar of his shirt, and hauls him into a kiss.

Their noses smash painfully and Achilles jerks back for a moment. Patroclus is just turning bright red and ready to bolt when Achilles finally moves back in, cradling the back of his head and very gently fitting their lips together. For all of Achilles' puppy-ish enthusiasm about the rest of his life, the kiss itself is slow and chaste, and Patroclus is the one who eventually pulls back. He rests their foreheads together and they grin at each other a little helplessly.

“Thank god you finally got the point of all those pick up lines,” Achilles says at last, “I was starting to run out.” Patroclus smacks him on the arm.

“Come on, let's skip the run this morning, I'll make omelets,” he says, and Achilles follows him into his small dorm.

“So what changed?” Achilles asks, mouth half-full of egg and cheese as he sits on Patroclus' bed with him.

“What do you mean?” Patroclus asks, carefully.

“Well, I didn't think you were ever gonna get it,” Achilles replies, taking another bite.

Patroclus cuts a few bites off of his own omelet, moves them around on his plate. He avoids Achilles' gaze as he says, “When I was at your party, your friends called me a faggot and told me I should stay away from you so I couldn't corrupt you.”

Silence, and then Achilles is stalking out the door, omelet forgotten.

“Wait, wait,” Patroclus calls, scrambling after him, but Achilles is already opening the door. He turns back for just a moment and his face is stony, his eyes dangerous.

“I'll be right back,” he says, and is gone.

Achilles is suspended for two weeks for putting Hector and his friends in the hospital. They're not even in for a day before the doctors release them, but when they make their case to the dean, Aggy has his am in a sling and Hector is sporting the beginnings of a tremendous black eye. Achilles is banned from school property for the time being and is whisked away by his father before he can talk to Patroclus at all. Patroclus waits by his phone for several hours before he remembers that he never did give Achilles his number.

Hector and Aggy corner him on his run a week later, Aggy's arm not even in a cast, and by the time Briseis finds them in the alley two streets down from Ithica, Patroclus is slumped against the wall, bruises blooming all over his face and sides. Hector's gang leaves the alley limping, chased out by Briseis' fury, and Patroclus spends a day in the hospital.

When Achilles comes back to school, Patroclus waits for him in the morning, knowing he won't be able to run for another day or two. Achilles doesn't come, and he doesn't come to the coffee shop either.

When he finally shows up at Ithica almost a week later, Patroclus feels his heart drop into his stomach. “Can I help you?” he asks coldly, and Achilles looks pained.

“Pat,” he says, and Patroclus glares. “Patroclus,” he amends, “Look, I need to talk to you-”

“Did you want coffee or not?” Patroclus asks him, clenching and unclenching his fists behind the counter.

“No, I just – I need to talk to you about this-”

“If you're not here for coffee, you should leave. I have other customers to attend to,” Patroclus says, and Achilles, bewildered, looks around at the nearly empty shop.

“I just-”

“Leave, Achilles.”

“I'm sorry-”

“Get OUT!”

Achilles scrambles to leave, and Patroclus collapses onto the counter.

“Oh, honey, come on,” Briseis says gently, and leads him to the back. She lowers him gently to the ground, where he curls in on himself in the corner, and she pats him on the head soothingly before leaving him there.

On his next day off, two weeks after Achilles' return to the school, Patroclus walks out the front door at three in the morning to find Achilles waiting with a backpack strapped on his back. “Hey,” he says, scrambling up from where he'd been sitting against the wall.

“Hi,” Patroclus replies coldly, and goes to walk down the steps when Achilles clears his throat.

“I was thinking, uh,” he starts off, looking sheepish, and Patroclus snorts.

“Dangerous.”

When Achilles rolls his eyes, his whole head follows. “There's this trail I know of. It's usually quiet 'cause no one really goes to it, so I was thinking, if you wanted to hike it, that'd be cool,” he says, face tinging pink, and Patroclus thinks for a long moment before he shrugs.

“Sure, alright,” he says, and Achilles' face splits in a wide grin. He bounds down the stairs to stand next to a bright yellow muscle car, and Patroclus starts shaking his head. “Do we have to drive?”

Achilles nods and says, “Yeah, I mean, it's kinda far out, the only way to get there is by car.”

“Fine,” Patroclus tells him, “but we're keeping the windows up so no one sees me in your stupid muscly car with you.”

Ten minutes later, they're speeding down the empty highway, winding around cliffsides in the heavy morning fog, and when Achilles rolls down the windows, cranks up the music, and starts belting out the lyrics, grinning at Patroclus, behind his shades, Patroclus just can't bring himself to mind.

Achilles pulls up to a trailhead off the highway, and when he turns the car off, Patroclus can hear the ocean. He cautiously follows Achilles out, taking in the sheer cliffs and mess of eucalyptus trees just visible through the fog.

“Trail's through here,” Achilles tells him, hushed, and Patroclus can see why; he feels reluctant to shatter the stillness of the air, the sounds of the waves and the wind. With a deep breath, Achilles sets off, navigating the ups and downs of the trail with the ease of someone who's walked it many times. Patroclus follows him more cautiously in the grey light before dawn, sliding down sheer drops instead of just jumping like he does. By the time they're half an hour into their hike, they're both covered in mud, though Patroclus gets the feeling that Achilles is as muddy as he is because of some weird form of solidarity, rather than the various times Patroclus has tripped and fallen flat onto the muddy ground.

“Are we ever getting there?” Patroclus asks when they conquer yet another eight foot cliff, Achilles scaling the thing easily and then hauling him up behind. The morning is still cold, the sun not yet up but the sky hinting at it through the trees, but Patroclus is sweating inside his jacket.

“Yeah, just another fifty feet,” Achilles tells him, grinning. He's sweating too, Patroclus is victoriously pleased to see, but all it does is give his bronzed skin a sort of shimmer, and when he turns to lead the way uphill, Patroclus kicks a chunk of wet dirt at him. It bounces harmlessly away, and he sighs, following Achilles through the trees. They start thinning out, making way for grasses that reach Patroclus' hands as he walks.

“What is this place?” he asks, looking around. Achilles just holds a finger to his lips and pushes his way through the grass until he's standing at a railing. When Patroclus joins him and looks down, he gulps; the ocean is a good several hundred feet away, down a sheer cliff face. Waves crash at the bottom of the cliff, sending up spray, and the wind howls around them. Patroclus clutches the railing, knuckles turning white.

“Turn around real quick,” Achilles tells him, and turns to lean back against the wood of the railing. Patroclus mirrors him, watching his face, but Achilles is looking right up at the mountains to the east, shades tucked into the v-neck of his pink shirt. The sky lightens suddenly, pink clouds scuttling across golden hues, and from over the mountains comes sunlight. Achilles turns back to the sea and Patroclus does the same, staring out at the sparkling water.

“Why bring me here?” Patroclus finds himself asking, curiosity getting the better of him. Achilles doesn't seem to notice, mulling the question over for a moment before answering.

“I used to come here to get away from the school,” he says at last. He takes in a deep breath and Patroclus does the same, smelling the salt on the air. “My mother always liked the sea. It's calming.” He looks calm, eyes half-closed against the sea spray and shoulders loose.

They're silent for a long time, with only the sound of the waves and the wind for company. Patroclus looks down, watching the waves crash against the rocks of the cliff face, taking in the enormity of it all. Achilles just leans against the railing in silence, eyes closed.

“I'm sorry for what happened,” Achilles finally says, once the sun has started touching their backs. Patroclus glances at him; he's still staring out over the water, green eyes unseeing. “I lose my temper sometimes, and I'm sorry they took it out on you after.”

Patroclus sighs deeply, reaches out and hesitantly places his hand on Achilles' arm. “It's okay,” he says, at a loss, and Achilles shakes his head.

“They shouldn't have said those things. I shouldn't have-” he stops, grips the railing tighter. “I should have seen you when I came back, but I thought they might go after you again if I did.” He turns to Patroclus finally. “I'm really sorry for ignoring you.”

“Hey, I mean, I'm not gonna say it didn't suck,” Patroclus says lightly, grinning. “I get it, dude, we're cool.”

“I wrote you a poem,” Achilles says, still distressed, and Patroclus laughs.

“Do not, under any circumstances, read it to me.”

Achilles pouts and stares back down at the ocean. “My teacher thought it was good,” he says petulantly, and Patroclus punches him in the arm.

“Stop being a sad sack, it's freakin' me out,” he says, and Achilles breathes out, shoulders loosening again.

“You forgive me?” he asks.

“If you ever ignore me for two weeks like that again, I'll get Briseis to beat you up, but for now, I forgive you,” Patroclus tells him, and Achilles finally laughs.

“Yeah, I heard the boys were afraid to go to Ithica now.” They both laugh.

“So we're good,” Patroclus says again, and Achilles nods.

“We're good.”

“No more ignoring me?”

“Not if my life depended on it.”

“So... I can do this, then?” Patroclus asks quickly, and before Achilles can react he's pulled him into a kiss, more desperate than the last ones. Patroclus sighs into it and Achilles threads his fingers through his dark curls.

“You can definitely do that,” Achilles says, laughing, “but first, can I get your number?”