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The call comes—" Achilles !"—but the quality of it is quite off. Zagreus already sounds weak. It's more of a gasp than a shout. Achilles is at his side at once, Patroclus at his back, spears raised.
Only the chamber is empty. The Lethe tumbles on, heedless; the statues are still, no Exalted present themselves. A spot glows in the river where the prince has not yet pounced with his Rod of Fishing, and this is most ominous. Achilles looks around. Patroclus taps his shoulder, and points.
"Zagreus," Achilles gasps, and rushes, because he's crumpled in a most unfamiliar heap against the far wall, eyes half-closed and mouth half-open. His spear—in Achilles' own aspect today—lays across him with its head in his lap. "Lad. Speak to me. Are you all right?"
Zagreus stirs. Achilles feels a rush of relief which is of course distinctly mortal in flavor. There is no need to worry after the lad's health. He dies on the regular and hunts injury like sport. Whatever ails him now will fade with the Styx when next he does, and he will bound out into the hall once again, smile in place and vitality restored. But instinct is hard to shake, and Achilles kneels at his side with a twist in his gut. He has so rarely seen Zagreus like this, if ever.
Achilles puts a hand on his cheek. "Zagreus." And the lad jerks to awareness with a sharp breath.
"Achilles," Zagreus gasps, and shudders full-bodied and violent. Like he's cold. His face is burning up. So is the rest of him, when Achilles touches his chest. Oh, his heart is hammering away at a frightful pace. When Achilles looks back at his face it's stained red, eyes hazy, lips dry from panting. "Achilles."
"What's wrong, Zagreus," Achilles says urgently. Cups his face again. "Who did this to you?"
And Zagreus—Zagreus moans , and his eyelids flutter. Goes taut and then limp, hips squirming so that Varatha shifts in his lap, pushes his face into Achilles' hand like he's desperate to be petted.
Achilles glances around for Patroclus. He's fucking fishing.
"Oh relax, would you," he drawls in response to Achilles' face. "Nothing can really harm him for good up here."
"He's suffering," says Achilles.
"Mm," says Patroclus. "You could call it that, I suppose."
"What else could you call it?"
Patroclus rolls a shoulder back. Yanks up the line. A Charp. "Use your eyes, Achilles," he says, examining the fish. "That spear of his isn't simply lap decoration, now, is it?"
Frowning, Achilles lowers his gaze to the spear. It rests on Zagreus' thigh, one of his hands clutching it just beneath the spearhead, pressing it into—
Oh.
"I'm sorry," Zagreus whispers. His face is burning again when Achilles looks. "Sorry. I'm sorry."
"What—what's happened, lad," Achilles stammers. Tries to avert his gaze and fails. Varatha thrums gently; it's warm to the touch, almost alive. Zagreus pushes his hips desperately into it again, the tent in his chiton now so obvious Achilles isn't sure how he missed it before, and makes a sound that might almost be a whine, or perhaps simply a sob. Tears are surely beading at the corners of his mismatched eyes, half-lidded and unable to meet Achilles' own for shame. "Who did this to you?"
Zagreus shakes his head, then shakes all over, and slumps down further so that Achilles is reaching for him before he knows it. Gathers his trembling body into his arms. Zagreus mumbles, "Side effect. I think."
"A side effect?"
"Aphrodite," Zagreus whispers. "And Ares."
Patroclus has joined them now. He shows Zagreus his fish. "What do you think, stranger?"
"Nice," Zagreus manages, because he'd die sooner than be rude to a friend, so Achilles cuffs Patroclus on the shoulder, which only makes him chuckle.
"You're in quite a way, there, stranger," he says. "We certainly didn't expect to be summoned to a sight like this."
"I'm sorry," Zagreus murmurs. "Please… help me."
"Help you?" Achilles asks, frowning. "I don't suppose we can rid you of your boons, not if they've been granted by the gods. How—"
"Oh, but you are thick," Patroclus says fondly. "What sort of help do you suppose your lad really wants right now?"
Achilles stares. " Pat ," he says, because this isn't the time for jokes, surely—but Zagreus is shuddering horribly at the words and pressing his face into the hand Patroclus puts to him. Patroclus' hands are warm and dry, or at least they are now that he's wiped the fish off on Achilles' cloak, and Zagreus leans into his touch like he's drowning.
"All right, stranger?" he asks.
Zagreus makes a sound troublingly like a whimper. "Please touch me, sir," he whispers, barely audible, and Achilles swallows hard. The prince's hips are twitching. Ever-helpful, Patroclus holds the spear more firmly against his lap and he groans when next his hips rock, visibly tortured by the uneven slide of the spearhead. "Ah…"
"Don't tease, Pat," Achilles admonishes, almost automatically. The smirk he gets back makes him realize what he's really said. Don't tease. So the alternative… "Lad, are you quite sure about this?"
Zagreus groans , snaking out a feeble hand to paw at Achilles' shoulder. Beyond words, but it's clear what he asks for. Patroclus says, "And you tell me not to tease. Don't be cruel, Achilles. Your protegé needs your help."
"I'm not sure it's appropriate—"
"Now you care for decorum," says Patroclus, and takes Achilles' hand. It's so common an occurrence Achilles doesn't question it until Patroclus is guiding him to Zagreus' lap, nudging aside the folds of his chiton and pressing Achilles to—
Zagreus gasps, high and shocked, and his hips jerk violently enough to dislodge the spear. Achilles is struck dumb by the flush riding his cheeks and the haze that colors his eyes.
"Pat," Achilles begins, alarmed, but Patroclus says, "Oh, give it up, Achilles. There's a time for propriety, and it's not when the prince of the Underworld is trying to make love to your spear hand." And then answers Achilles' silent fear, as is his way: "You won't offend me, if that's your concern. You old fool."
"Hey," Achilles manages.
"Mightn't I want a turn, Achilles?" Patroclus asks, wry, and presses Achilles' hand into Zagreus' lap again. “A go-around with this prince of yours?” Zagreus groans and throws an arm over his eyes, shaking.
"Zagreus," Achilles says, concerned.
"Don't," Zagreus whispers even as he works his hips desperately against Achilles' hand seemingly without meaning to. "Don't… If you… don't want…"
Achilles blinks. Of all things to worry about, of course it's him. Zagreus' eyes are beseeching, glazed with the same fever sitting high on his cheeks. Trying vainly to stop the roll of his hips unless he has Achilles' say so.
Patroclus answers for him, plucking the words from his stupid, gaping mouth. "Don't you worry about that, stranger," he says. "You needn't fear for a lack of interest on Achilles' part. You wouldn't if you heard him talk about you for more than a few moments at a time, you know."
" Pat ," Achilles begins again for probably the tenth time today, but it's Zagreus who interrupts this time with a sound so plaintive and wanting that Achilles jaw locks. Patroclus’ eye glints. He’s devious. Ceaseless. Zagreus’ mouth dropped open some time ago , slack and panting, his muscles tight with the effort it takes not to rock into Achilles’ hand, limp with shock. Patroclus jerks his head a little, like, Well?
Achilles swallows. Tightens his grip. Zagreus’ eyes roll back.
“ Sir ,” he breathes more than says, head falling back as his hips jerk horribly. “Oh. I—”
“All right, lad?” Achilles murmurs. Pat huffs an amused sound at his ear, entirely too self-satisfied. Zagreus’ throat bobs, tears beading at his tightly shut eyes. “Is this all right?”
“Mmf,” says Zagreus. “Sir. Is this—are you—” His words are both slurred and cut-off, interrupted by harsh breathing and nowhere near the clipped eloquence Achilles is used to. “You—sure? Ah —”
“Don’t worry about me, lad.” It’s absurd to think about. As if anyone could look at Zagreus, could know him, and not fall for him just a little. He’s the sun they’ve not seen in lifetimes, fresh air where here there’s only stale. In pleasure he’s a more divine sight still, flushed to the collar and pawing helplessly at his own clothes, trying to shuck them off. Aphrodite’s penchant for nudity rubbing off on him, perhaps. And speaking of.
“Are you just going to watch,” Achilles asks Patroclus, flatly, because Patroclus is pressed up behind him and Achilles can feel his interest. Patroclus chuckles again. His dry manner is infuriating. Achilles is infuriated, that’s it, when Patroclus nuzzles his face into Achilles’ neck and kisses the line of it. The warm breath and the tactile scratch of his beard he’s missed for so long. “Have you not had enough idle spectating for a lifetime, so to speak?“
“I’ve not had such a show in a long time, on the contrary,” Patroclus replies, thoughtful, “but if you need my help to please a lover, I’m sure I understand—” and laughs when Achilles shoves him backward in offence. “Having fun there, stranger?”
In the midst of their conversation Zagreus has gone quiet. He’s thrown an arm over his face, muffling his gasps in the meat of his forearm, though he’s as flushed and tense as ever; Achilles speeds the pace of his hand but it seems only to torment him more, a frustrated sob escaping through his gritted teeth. At Patroclus’ address he startles, cracks open his green eye and makes a sound neither of them can decipher.
Patroclus tsks . “It would appear my assistance is needed after all,” he says, most gravely, as to a patient on his wartime deathbed. In a fluid movement he’s shifted to Zagreus’ side, gathering Zagreus into a plaintive, teary pile in his arms and fitting their mouths together.
Achilles inhales sharply. His pace falters. Zagreus himself seems too overwhelmed to make much of it. The sight of them together is enchanting. Breathtaking, mortally so, were such a thing necessary for a shade. He knows all too well how Patroclus kisses, with the single-minded intensity he applies to anything he deems sufficiently interesting yet languid enough to drive a man mad. Zagreus stands no chance, squirming and humming without aim, raising one weak hand to tangle into Patroclus’ thick hair.
Patroclus releases him after a minute, leaving his lips red and swollen. Through lidded eyes he looks at Achilles. “Well?” he says. “I sense your service to the prince is incomplete, somehow.”
Achilles startles. “Ah,” he says, for his hand has stilled entirely and his own mouth is inelegantly agape. Zagreus’ head drops against Patroclus’ arm with a low moan when he restarts. His toes curl, their fiery glow thrumming like coals under breath, occasionally kicking and tangling in Achilles’ cloak. It must be godly, be it blood or boon, that grants him such unfortunate stamina. Achilles thumbs over the tip of him and gathers what’s collected there, but the lad is still painfully hard, and the tightness in his throat and thighs indicates an overall lack of reprieve. Patroclus pets idly at his face, his chest, tweaks his nipples in a way that makes him writhe, but the tension doesn’t leave him.
Achilles looks up. Patroclus is following his gaze. He quirks an eyebrow. What are you going to do, then?
So Achilles lowers his head and takes his prince into his mouth.
It’s Patroclus’ steady hands on his hips that stop Zagreus from thrusting into Achilles’ throat. A harsh sound rips its way from Zagreus’ chest anyway, and vaguely in his periphery Achilles sees Zagreus’ hands fly up to tear at his own hair. Patroclus is murmuring something to him, head bent close over Zagreus’ face, gentle hands never ceasing, exploring every inch of the lad’s skin. His chiton is undone now and easy to shove aside. It’s slipped invitingly low over his shoulder; his pauldron’s fallen entirely away. New sounds are spilling loose from Zagreus’ mouth, slurred pleas and gasped names lost in the mindless babble. Achilles swallows him down, hardly minds Patroclus’ hand at the back of his neck when it comes to rest there, and drinks in Zagreus’ pleasure.
"Sir," Zagreus gasps. Eyes rolling. " Sir , oh, please. Please…"
Achilles draws back, wraps a hand loosely around Zagreus’ length to placate him. "My name, lad,” he rasps. Pets at his thigh, hoping to soothe him. “Dispense with the formalities for now."
Patroclus chuckles. Teases at Zagreus’ chest until he moans and squirms. "You're dense as ever, Achilles. You can't tell? He likes it." He runs a hand up Zagreus' other thigh, pinches the soft skin there, and Zagreus' breath hitches. "Don't you, stranger?"
It takes Zagreus a moment to get his bearings enough to speak. "Yes," he mumbles. "Yes, sir. Thank—thank you, ah—"
Overwhelmed, Achilles pets clumsily at him before ducking back down and resuming his attentions. He’s satisfied with the noise of relief Zagreus makes, but Patroclus seems not to be; he hums thoughtfully, then cups Zagreus’ jaw in his face again. Zagreus hums contentedly, then makes a muffled sound of surprise. Achilles glances up again to see Patroclus with a thumb on Zagreus’ bottom lip, the prince’s mouth held open around two of his fingers. The flush on his cheeks burns darker. Achilles sees his throat work as he sucks on Patroclus’ fingers, eyes hazy. A weak thrust into his still mouth catches his wandering attention yet again. Patroclus is too distracting, Zagreus too entrancing, and Achilles is caught repeatedly off-guard even with his prince heavy on his tongue. Zagreus seems altogether unspooled, mouthing at Patroclus’ hand and swirling his tongue around his fingers, and Achilles allows himself another indulgent moment to watch before redoubling his efforts.
He only knows this the way Pat likes it. But Zagreus seems amenable, from his cut-off gasps and quickening breaths and the upwards roll of his hips—fucking shallowly into Achilles’ mouth until his whole body tenses in the gentle hold of Patroclus’ free hand and Achilles’ own grasp on his hips and finally—when it seems he's strung so tight he's in danger of snapping—he comes down Achilles’ throat with a strangled cry, muffled around Patroclus’ fingers. Achilles presses his hands to the lines of Zagreus’ Adonis belt and works him through it, not letting up even when Zagreus starts to tremble. He’s still hard. It must be in the blood. Patroclus makes an impressed sound; murmurs, “A little insatiable, are we, stranger?” which coaxes another soft noise from Zagreus’ open mouth.
When Patroclus removes his fingers, it’s with a wet pop that makes Achilles shift, deeply aware of his own rising—situation and yet hard-pressed to prioritize it. Lips newly freed, Zagreus whispers, “Sir, please.” Weakly raises his head to chase Patroclus’ hand. Patroclus hums even as he nudges Achilles a little out of the way—Achilles makes a disgruntled sound around his mouthful of Zagreus—and folds Zagreus’ leg up further against his chest.
“You’ll like this more, I think,” he says.
The soft cry Zagreus gives at the first soft press of Patroclus’ finger proves him right. Achilles finally lets up, now enlightened of Patroclus’ noble intentions, and gives him room to work. Lifts Zagreus a little by the hips and the lad promptly tries to fold himself in half, kneeing Achilles lightly in the head and earning a small grunt of offence. He’s flexible—one of the gods’ many blessings, it seems, and Achilles winds up pressed to his side with an arm at his back, a hand tucked neatly into the crook of Zagreus’ knee to keep his leg aloft. Pat’s attentions have left him more pliant than ever. He goes where they move him, easily, and his breaths have gone shallow and quick.
“Relax, there, Zagreus,” Patroclus murmurs. A name, a rarity, so sweet on Patroclus’ tongue after their usual play at unfamiliarity. With Achilles’ fresh view of Zagreus’ face, he sees the effect of each little crook of Patroclus’ fingers—two now. Having been the target of such attentions himself Achilles has no trouble understanding the dazed bliss on Zagreus’ face, overstimulated and overwhelmed, having already come once. He’s heard the gossip of the shades and, while he always found the speculation a little absurd, now has had the chance to sate the foolish curiosity. Zagreus’ length is the shade of human skin as his hands are. But flushed red as it is now, it almost comes close to the rumors.
He’s usually so eloquent. It feels almost blasphemous to see him in such incoherence. Patroclus is utterly relentless, punching shallower and shallower gasps from Zagreus’ chest with each press of his fingers. Zagreus reaches weakly for Patroclus and Achilles moves behind him so as to prop him up with his own body, lets Zagreus lounge back against his chest in his quest to get his hands on Patroclus. A quest Achilles understands, and so with which empathizes. He’s muttering something under his breath, eyes closed; Achilles leans closer to draw his whispers of Patroclus' name like breath into his own lungs, quiet pleas and reverent gasps mingling in the sweet Elysian air.
Benevolently Patroclus takes his grasping hands in his own unoccupied one. “If only you were aware how irresistible you are, stranger,” he says. Affectionately, yet disaffectedly, as is his way. “The effect might be lessened, then.”
Zagreus unleashes a shuddering breath. Says, absurdly, “Thank you,” which makes Patroclus chuckle and quicken his pace. Zagreus groans and drops his head against Achilles’ collarbone, so Achilles drops his own head in return: spends his time with his mouth pressed to Zagreus’ neck and jaw, kissing his skin and the life pulsing beneath it with a worship that befits him. Bites only when he can’t resist, against reverent decorum. From the catches in Zagreus’ gasping breaths, Achilles hazards a guess that he does not mind. The young prince has never cared for veneration. Achilles leaves it in his marks, anyway, though they will be gone when next Zagreus emerges. Achilles will remember, as will Patroclus, the way they drew mortal blood to discolor his divine skin, the way he writhes under Patroclus’ attentions, joined hands pressed to Zagreus’ taut abdomen. Achilles nudges Zagreus’ head to the side, presses his mouth to Zagreus’ and drinks him down like all the ambrosia in the world couldn’t compare. His breath hitches and then so do his hips. He sobs once into Achilles’ mouth. Pours sounds into it that might be some slurred blend of his name and Patroclus’. His hands fly up to tangle in Achilles’ hair, his body twists; with a smooth motion of Patroclus’ wrist, Zagreus comes with a snap, pressing himself harder into the both of them, turning the claim they’ve laid in him into something almost tangible and absorbing their affection through his flushed, dampened skin.
Achilles knows Zagreus has recovered when he starts trying to struggle to his feet, heedless of his head in Patroclus’ lap and the idle lines Patroclus is stroking across his jaw. “Oh, gods,” Achilles hears Zagreus mumble, and oddly this seems to mark the departure of godly influence at last.
“Not so fast, there, stranger,” Patroclus says firmly, and tries to press him back. Still, Zagreus is as incorrigible as Patroclus is unyielding. With a disgruntled noise from Patroclus, Zagreus scrambles through his grasping hands and struggles, swaying, to his feet. Patroclus snorts. “Good grief. No-one around here respects the value of rest . He’s just like you,” he adds to Achilles, who finds this somewhat unfair and informs him so by pinching his earlobe.
“I’m so sorry,” Zagreus says, with a flustered little bow that Achilles thinks he must have picked up from Achilles himself. “I—oh, gods. I’ve made a fool of myself before you plenty of times, sirs, but this has to be the worst of it.”
Achilles leans against Patroclus, who seems in no hurry to stand, and absorbs his warmth into his own bare arms. Zagreus is looking around for his spear. It’s propped against a wall, disguised by Achilles’ cloak and reduced to a drying rack after Patroclus saw fit to use his clothing for clean-up. Achilles will forgive him for this later.
Achilles says, “There’s no shame. Stay a while, lad. Rest.”
Zagreus laughs, exhaustion still plain in his voice. He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m grateful, sir, but—could you not find the mercy to let me go from your sight after all I’ve put you through? I’ve plenty of shame to wallow in, I think, sir, what with how I’ve conducted myself this encounter.” Indeed he seems hard-pressed to meet their eyes directly, though it has possibly the opposite effect he intends, since instead he peers a little bashfully up at them through his eyelashes and combined with the pink on his cheeks it’s terribly, terribly charming.
“I think not, lad,” Achilles says. “I told you we would come when you called for our aid. That we did.”
“I don’t think this is what you had in mind, sir.”
“And we didn’t, in fact,” Patroclus adds, and is swatted by Achilles for this.
“We placed no conditions on our assistance, Zagreus,” Achilles says.
Zagreus groans. “Please stop being so considerate. I think I’ll die of shame before I even reach Theseus.”
Patroclus’ lip curls, watching Zagreus sway slightly. “You don’t have to keep doing this to yourself, stranger,” he says. “You could simply return home, or stay with us a while, even. At least to rest for a night.”
“Day,” adds Achilles.
“Whatever,” Patroclus finishes.
Zagreus shakes his head, looking very flustered. “Thank you,” he says. “For your. Assistance.” Flushes darker. “I—I really hate to—take advantage of your kindness and run but I—ugh, gods, I ought to find a Pool or Purging lest that happen again and I inflict myself on some unwitting and entirely too kind friends a second time. Gods forbid.”
“Oh, we’d hate that,” Patroclus drawls. “I had just a dreadful time, there, didn’t you, Achilles? Take this fish for me, at least, stranger, I’ve no use for it.”
“Well,” says Achilles, as Zagreus obligingly takes the Charp and, immediately discovering he similarly has no use for it, settles for brandishing it in place of his missing spear. “Go if you must, Zagreus, but this isn’t Pat’s customary chamber, you know. Perhaps we’ll meet you again a few doors down.”
“Oh, yes,” says Patroclus. “And if you fail to find one of your pools before then, well. I don’t think Achilles would be opposed to lending you a hand again. We can leave poor Antos out of it this time, I think.”
“Oh, don’t tease him,” Achilles says, watching poor Zagreus’ face begin to glow. “Off you go, lad. Hey—” and he waits for Zagreus’ full attention. Retrieving his cloak, he hands Zagreus back his spear. “There’s no need for embarrassment. You understand that, lad? Helping you—it’s our pleasure.”
“It certainly is,” Patroclus yawns, and with a mortified little nod of gratitude Zagreus sets off again. “You know, I do believe that door he’s just staggered through is mine.”
“Is it, now,” Achilles says, and pulls Patroclus up by the hand. “Well, then.”