fic: Until the Sea Shall Free Them (The Iliad; Achilles/Patroclus; pg)
Until the Sea Shall Free Them
The Iliad; Achilles/Patroclus; pg; 1,330 words
Patroclus knows there is a reckoning coming, probably sooner rather than later, but for now, he chooses to lose himself in the heat of Achilles' body.
Written as a treat for aderam in the 2008 yuletide challenge. Thanks to mousapelli for looking it over, and to snacky for handholding. Title from Leonard Cohen.
~*~
Until the Sea Shall Free Them
Patroclus stirs and wakes, alone in the darkness. He eases his way out of his nest of blankets and pushes open the tent-flap, squinting against the bright light of the moon, which hangs low and full, casting the world into lines of light and shadow. It's late, then, and Achilles has not yet come to bed.
He could be with one of the women, or dicing with the men, though the fires are burning low and there is only the usual noise of an army camp breaking the heavy silence, no sounds of an exciting all-night game splitting the air.
Patroclus thinks about going back to sleep, can hear Achilles laughing at him if he admits to the small pang of worry he feels whenever he wakes and Achilles is not at his side. Or, if Achilles' mood is less charitable, he will scold, and maybe let Patroclus cajole him out of the sullens. Either way, Patroclus is awake now, and curious to see which response he'll receive.
He pulls on his chiton and heads out into the camp, making bets with himself about Achilles' disposition. He waves to the sentries, who grunt in response, and stops to talk to Automedon, who is sitting up with the horses.
"He was in a bit of a strop when I saw him," Automedon says with a wry smile, no need to ever identify him by name.
Patroclus gives a low huff of laughter. "When is he not?"
"Go jolly him out of it," Automedon says. "He and Agamemnon had words again."
Patroclus shakes his head; Agamemnon could try even the wisest and most tactful of men (has, if Odysseus is to be believed), and Achilles, despite many admonishments and pleas for patience from Patroclus on the subject, is no diplomat even on his best day.
"I'll see what I can do, but I make no guarantees."
Armed with that information, Patroclus sets off for the water. It's where Achilles usually goes when he needs to cool down and there is no one around for him to kill.
Achilles is standing knee-deep in the surf, the moon bleaching his golden skin bone white, and his red-gold hair is dark. If he were speaking with his mother, Patroclus would ease away, but he appears to be alone.
"Swim with me," he says imperiously, voice carrying over the rush of the water. He sounds like a twelve-year-old boy again, demanding Patroclus spar or dice with him to keep him entertained. Patroclus is not surprised Achilles knows he's there even with his back turned--they have an uncanny knack for recognizing each other's presence after so many years together.
Patroclus wades into the water, the chill of it sending a quick shiver through him, though the night is warm. He tries not to wince as he pulls his chiton over his head and drops it on the damp sand. His ribs are still tender from their last sortie, and the bruising has yet to go away.
Achilles catches it, though, as hawk-eyed as he is swift-footed, and splays a tender hand against his ribcage, thumb rubbing slowly over aching skin. His eyes glint silver in the darkness, all mischief and heat. "Perhaps I should kiss it and make it better."
Patroclus gives him a lazy half-smile. "Perhaps you should." Achilles shifts slightly, gives just the barest hint that he's going to bend forward and actually put his mouth behind his words, and Patroclus takes off into the waves. "You'll have to catch me first, though."
"Tease," Achilles shouts after him, stripping off his own chiton and tossing it to the sand before following.
The sea is calm, the waves rolling steadily in a rhythm that's easy to catch, like the beat of the drum counting time to the rowers. Patroclus swims quickly, easily, ignoring the twinges of pain in his ribs, delighted to have caught Achilles out for once, to be given the gift of leading him for once, rather than following.
Achilles excels at swimming, born to the water like the demi-god he is, powerful arms cutting through the waves the way his spear cuts through the ranks of his enemies. Patroclus slows, gasping with laughter and exertion, and lets himself be caught.
Achilles wraps an arm around his waist, a leg around his hip, and pulls him under without warning. The water closes over their heads, black as Styx, and Patroclus sends up a small prayer to the gods. He knows it's not Achilles' fate to die like this, in some ridiculous accident while they're horsing around, but he's not always so sure about himself. He has worked to keep himself from the gods' notice (and their jealousy), stood in Achilles' shadow and let him bask in the glory of their sight. But they have an odd sense of humor, and it makes him wary even of games sometimes. One of them has to be, and it will never be Achilles.
They surface together, gasping, and Achilles kisses him, mouth hot and wet, full of air sweeter than honeyed wine, and Patroclus breathes him in, all heat and need and power. Laughter, too, as they break apart, and in the moonlight, with his hair dark and slicked off his forehead by the water, Achilles looks younger, happier than he has in a long time. Perhaps since they came to Troy's accursed shores. The war rages on, and the years have passed, as was foretold, but for all his supposed piety, Achilles has never been a patient man, has shaken his fist and muttered imprecations at the gods when the glory he seeks is denied him. Patroclus offers them silent prayers of gratitude, that Achilles has been with him as long as he has.
Patroclus shakes his head, whipping water like a dog, and Achilles laughs again, bright as the moon, and Patroclus kisses him, swallows it down so it can light him from the inside. He doesn't know how long they will have together, so he takes every opportunity he can to capture what little of Achilles that can be caught, to hold it inside him, so that the man will be as well-remembered as his deeds.
"So solemn, my Patroclus," Achilles murmurs against his lips. "Are your ribs still sore?" His hand rubs over the bruising again, and Patroclus sucks in a pained breath.
"I'll do," he answers truthfully.
With that, Achilles is off, body sleek and agile as a fish in the water, and Patroclus follows. They race back to shore, Achilles winning by the length of his body, and crowing about it. Patroclus can hear him over his own strokes and the rush of the waves. Having already lost, he lets himself float to the shore. The water carries him easily, deposits him on the sand next to Achilles, who rolls onto his side, raises himself up on one elbow, and presses another kiss to Patroclus' lips, this one slow and full of promises.
"I take it your mood has improved," Patroclus murmurs against his jaw, ignoring the wet sand clinging to his skin.
"Mmm," Achilles hums, hands moving over Patroclus' wet skin, converting his chilled shivers into a more heated sort of trembling. "Now that you're here." He slots himself between Patroclus' legs and begins to move, dragging his body against Patroclus' in a slow tease that will drive both of them mad. "Agamemnon is an ass," he says.
Patroclus rolls his hips, knowing exactly how to distract Achilles. "Then let's not talk about him now."
"Good idea." The words come out a low growl as they thrust against each other, lazily at first but with increasing speed and intensity as desire builds between them.
"Yes." Patroclus knows there is a reckoning coming, probably sooner rather than later, but for now, he chooses to lose himself in the heat of Achilles' body, of his love, and vows to offer that same escape to Achilles for as long as he requires it.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored. thank you to the people who've already commented. I truly appreciate it.
~*~
When I saw this request on the list of people who hadn't had a 1000-word story uploaded yet on Tuesday night, I was like, "Achilles/Patroclus! ♥ I can do that!" I've been OTP about them for a long time and I really would like to write more about them than I have, and this was a perfect opportunity. I fiddled around for a while, trying to think of what to do, and I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner, given my proclivities, but once I decided it was going to be a nightswimming story, it was pretty easy to write. I like it, the recipient liked it, and a few other people liked it, which pleases me.
Coming up soon, the year-end writing review. And then I will stop spamming you.
~*~
The Iliad; Achilles/Patroclus; pg; 1,330 words
Patroclus knows there is a reckoning coming, probably sooner rather than later, but for now, he chooses to lose himself in the heat of Achilles' body.
Written as a treat for aderam in the 2008 yuletide challenge. Thanks to mousapelli for looking it over, and to snacky for handholding. Title from Leonard Cohen.
~*~
Until the Sea Shall Free Them
Patroclus stirs and wakes, alone in the darkness. He eases his way out of his nest of blankets and pushes open the tent-flap, squinting against the bright light of the moon, which hangs low and full, casting the world into lines of light and shadow. It's late, then, and Achilles has not yet come to bed.
He could be with one of the women, or dicing with the men, though the fires are burning low and there is only the usual noise of an army camp breaking the heavy silence, no sounds of an exciting all-night game splitting the air.
Patroclus thinks about going back to sleep, can hear Achilles laughing at him if he admits to the small pang of worry he feels whenever he wakes and Achilles is not at his side. Or, if Achilles' mood is less charitable, he will scold, and maybe let Patroclus cajole him out of the sullens. Either way, Patroclus is awake now, and curious to see which response he'll receive.
He pulls on his chiton and heads out into the camp, making bets with himself about Achilles' disposition. He waves to the sentries, who grunt in response, and stops to talk to Automedon, who is sitting up with the horses.
"He was in a bit of a strop when I saw him," Automedon says with a wry smile, no need to ever identify him by name.
Patroclus gives a low huff of laughter. "When is he not?"
"Go jolly him out of it," Automedon says. "He and Agamemnon had words again."
Patroclus shakes his head; Agamemnon could try even the wisest and most tactful of men (has, if Odysseus is to be believed), and Achilles, despite many admonishments and pleas for patience from Patroclus on the subject, is no diplomat even on his best day.
"I'll see what I can do, but I make no guarantees."
Armed with that information, Patroclus sets off for the water. It's where Achilles usually goes when he needs to cool down and there is no one around for him to kill.
Achilles is standing knee-deep in the surf, the moon bleaching his golden skin bone white, and his red-gold hair is dark. If he were speaking with his mother, Patroclus would ease away, but he appears to be alone.
"Swim with me," he says imperiously, voice carrying over the rush of the water. He sounds like a twelve-year-old boy again, demanding Patroclus spar or dice with him to keep him entertained. Patroclus is not surprised Achilles knows he's there even with his back turned--they have an uncanny knack for recognizing each other's presence after so many years together.
Patroclus wades into the water, the chill of it sending a quick shiver through him, though the night is warm. He tries not to wince as he pulls his chiton over his head and drops it on the damp sand. His ribs are still tender from their last sortie, and the bruising has yet to go away.
Achilles catches it, though, as hawk-eyed as he is swift-footed, and splays a tender hand against his ribcage, thumb rubbing slowly over aching skin. His eyes glint silver in the darkness, all mischief and heat. "Perhaps I should kiss it and make it better."
Patroclus gives him a lazy half-smile. "Perhaps you should." Achilles shifts slightly, gives just the barest hint that he's going to bend forward and actually put his mouth behind his words, and Patroclus takes off into the waves. "You'll have to catch me first, though."
"Tease," Achilles shouts after him, stripping off his own chiton and tossing it to the sand before following.
The sea is calm, the waves rolling steadily in a rhythm that's easy to catch, like the beat of the drum counting time to the rowers. Patroclus swims quickly, easily, ignoring the twinges of pain in his ribs, delighted to have caught Achilles out for once, to be given the gift of leading him for once, rather than following.
Achilles excels at swimming, born to the water like the demi-god he is, powerful arms cutting through the waves the way his spear cuts through the ranks of his enemies. Patroclus slows, gasping with laughter and exertion, and lets himself be caught.
Achilles wraps an arm around his waist, a leg around his hip, and pulls him under without warning. The water closes over their heads, black as Styx, and Patroclus sends up a small prayer to the gods. He knows it's not Achilles' fate to die like this, in some ridiculous accident while they're horsing around, but he's not always so sure about himself. He has worked to keep himself from the gods' notice (and their jealousy), stood in Achilles' shadow and let him bask in the glory of their sight. But they have an odd sense of humor, and it makes him wary even of games sometimes. One of them has to be, and it will never be Achilles.
They surface together, gasping, and Achilles kisses him, mouth hot and wet, full of air sweeter than honeyed wine, and Patroclus breathes him in, all heat and need and power. Laughter, too, as they break apart, and in the moonlight, with his hair dark and slicked off his forehead by the water, Achilles looks younger, happier than he has in a long time. Perhaps since they came to Troy's accursed shores. The war rages on, and the years have passed, as was foretold, but for all his supposed piety, Achilles has never been a patient man, has shaken his fist and muttered imprecations at the gods when the glory he seeks is denied him. Patroclus offers them silent prayers of gratitude, that Achilles has been with him as long as he has.
Patroclus shakes his head, whipping water like a dog, and Achilles laughs again, bright as the moon, and Patroclus kisses him, swallows it down so it can light him from the inside. He doesn't know how long they will have together, so he takes every opportunity he can to capture what little of Achilles that can be caught, to hold it inside him, so that the man will be as well-remembered as his deeds.
"So solemn, my Patroclus," Achilles murmurs against his lips. "Are your ribs still sore?" His hand rubs over the bruising again, and Patroclus sucks in a pained breath.
"I'll do," he answers truthfully.
With that, Achilles is off, body sleek and agile as a fish in the water, and Patroclus follows. They race back to shore, Achilles winning by the length of his body, and crowing about it. Patroclus can hear him over his own strokes and the rush of the waves. Having already lost, he lets himself float to the shore. The water carries him easily, deposits him on the sand next to Achilles, who rolls onto his side, raises himself up on one elbow, and presses another kiss to Patroclus' lips, this one slow and full of promises.
"I take it your mood has improved," Patroclus murmurs against his jaw, ignoring the wet sand clinging to his skin.
"Mmm," Achilles hums, hands moving over Patroclus' wet skin, converting his chilled shivers into a more heated sort of trembling. "Now that you're here." He slots himself between Patroclus' legs and begins to move, dragging his body against Patroclus' in a slow tease that will drive both of them mad. "Agamemnon is an ass," he says.
Patroclus rolls his hips, knowing exactly how to distract Achilles. "Then let's not talk about him now."
"Good idea." The words come out a low growl as they thrust against each other, lazily at first but with increasing speed and intensity as desire builds between them.
"Yes." Patroclus knows there is a reckoning coming, probably sooner rather than later, but for now, he chooses to lose himself in the heat of Achilles' body, of his love, and vows to offer that same escape to Achilles for as long as he requires it.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored. thank you to the people who've already commented. I truly appreciate it.
~*~
When I saw this request on the list of people who hadn't had a 1000-word story uploaded yet on Tuesday night, I was like, "Achilles/Patroclus! ♥ I can do that!" I've been OTP about them for a long time and I really would like to write more about them than I have, and this was a perfect opportunity. I fiddled around for a while, trying to think of what to do, and I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner, given my proclivities, but once I decided it was going to be a nightswimming story, it was pretty easy to write. I like it, the recipient liked it, and a few other people liked it, which pleases me.
Coming up soon, the year-end writing review. And then I will stop spamming you.
~*~