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Troy: A Day in the Life

Summary:

Aspiring director Achilles has decided to film a documentary of the Trojan War. Together with his scriptwriter husband Patroclus, and a cast and crew of complete lunatics, they reenact the battle seeking to capture moments both exciting and ordinary - while enduring tourists, budget cuts, and trying (failing) to stay in character.

Chapter 1: Week 1

Chapter Text

“There’s a beached whale over there. We can’t shoot,” Antilochus says, pointing at the horizon, a collection of islands laid out across the glittering sea.

“That’s a tourist.”

They squint in the harsh sunlight, making out the supine figure in the sands. Antilochus’s face is a grainy mess of colors in the screen.

“Stop filming. We’ll run out of battery,” Antilochus complains, looking straight into the camera.


No one ever mentions how hot Troy is in the summer. The heat crumbles under the skin, grains of sand sticking to the hairs. The cameraman can feel sand clinging to his eyelashes as he balances equipment on his shoulder.

He trails after Antilochus like a loyal hound, making sure the man is in the middle of the shot.

“Want to meet my father? He’s very old.” Antilochus casts a glance over his shoulder as they amble through row after row of Achaean tents.
“The oldest man in the world, as they say.”

They stop by the medic tent. Screams pierce the air, the bitter aroma of unguents hitting the nose.

“Get out!” one of the medics yells, as Antilochus holds the tent flap open.

There are soldiers laid out on the ground, and he’s busy cutting an arrowhead out of a wound.

“That’s Machaon,” Antilochus introduces. “He’s our head medic.”

“Hi,” the cameraman says, lifting a hand in an awkward wave as Machaon hoists the arrowhead out, evoking a soul-crushing roar from the soldier beneath him.

“It’s pretty gruesome work,” Antilochus observes. “Hard labor, too.”

“Where the fuck is Patroclus?” Machaon demands. “He’s supposed to help us out today.”

“I think he’s taking a snack break,” Antilochus replies.

They have to leave because Machaon won’t stop cursing them out, and there is a limit on profanity before they get censored.


They find Patroclus behind the armory. The cameraman discovers a few granola bars in his pocket. They sit and munch quietly. Most of the soldiers are out on the field, practicing the phalanx.

He can hear them singing the paean every once in a while, when the wind hits the right spot. It’s a strange, eerie sound, like a cuckoo clock lost in the woods.

“What was your life like in Pylos?” the cameraman asks.

“Oh, grand. Just grand,” Antilochus replies, features brightening a little at the mention of his home.
“There was an olive grove outside the palace. We used to play there, my siblings and I. Sometimes we would take rafts out onto the water. A dreamland of a childhood.”

There’s a pause.

And then Antilochus fumbles around in his pocket, fishing out a crumpled ball of paper.
“Did I say that right?”

The cameraman feels sweat running down his forehead, thinking of everything that needs to be edited out afterwards.

“I think you meant to say, there was an orange grove outside the palace,” Patroclus corrects. They peer at the script together, Antilochus’s lines emphasized in pink highlight.

“Olive or orange?!” Antilochus asks, starting to get frustrated.

“Olive is a little stereotypical, don’t you think?” Patroclus questions.

“You wrote these lines!” Antilochus insists.

“Isn’t Odysseus the one with an olive tree in his bedroom or something?” the cameraman suggests.

He’s met with silence.

“Ah, shit. I’m going to have to rewrite everything,” Patroclus sighs.


A procession of soldiers crowds outside Agamemnon’s tent, their shields gleaming in brilliant colors. On any other day, Achilles would appreciate the beautifully painted emblems on each surface. There’s a pegasus, a chimera, a gorgon head.

The costume department really outdid themselves, he thinks. But he can’t focus because they are over budget. Again.

“Take twenty-two!” he yells, from his director’s chair overlooking the circle.

A palanquin is carried into the scene, the beat of the drums matching the footsteps of each bearer. They lower it onto the ground, and someone comes up to help Iphigenia out.

“Father!” she cries, veil fluttering in the breeze, running up to Agamemnon and throwing her arms around him.

They start to whisper to each other.

“Cut!” Achilles exclaims.
“I said cut!”

“What now?” Agamemnon demands.

“It’s very distracting,” Achilles complains, waving at Iphigenia.
“When she says father, it’s very distracting. Maybe we should make her a non-speaking role.”

“This is inconceivable!” Patroclus argues, from where he’s watching. His face is slightly red, probably thinking of all the hours he’s spent thinking up lines for the characters.

“I’m sorry,” Iphigenia calls out.
“I did get a C in Ancient Greek,” she admits.

“Would you be terribly upset if we cut out your lines?” Achilles asks.

“I mean … I die after this anyway,” Iphigenia shrugs.

Achilles can feel Patroclus glaring at him.
“Don’t start,” he mutters.

“You always do this.”

“I’m just making sure we don’t go over budget again.”

“You said I could have creative control -”

“Take twenty-three!” Achilles interrupts, not wanting to get into this again. He knows he’s going to get it later, from the way Patroclus is looking at him.


“So, do you think we’re a shoo-in for the university film festival?” Antilochus asks, as they roast marshmallows over the fire. He’s wearing pajamas underneath his armor. The cameraman doesn’t know how he can take it, even though the beach really does get chilly at night.

Briseis laughs. “Not with the way those two are carrying on all the time.”

“Ooh, let’s not go over budget,” Antilochus mimes, puffing up his chest and sitting grandly to mimic Achilles.

“But I want to portray the characters realistically!” Briseis grumbles, imitating Patroclus.

They fall into each other’s arms, then erupt into a fit of giggles.

“They should get a divorce,” Antilochus says.

“Then marry each other again,” Briseis adds.

“Then get another divorce.”

The makeup team arrives to touch up their faces. They scold Antilochus for getting sticky marshmallow all over his mouth, ruining his powder foundation.

“Why do we have to film in the middle of the night?” he whines.

“Because there are no tourists at this hour,” Briseis points out.

Hairspray permeates the air, making them cough at the scent of aerosol. They can hear Patroclus and Achilles in the tent rehearsing a love scene.

“Do you think they say those things to each other in the bedroom?” Antilochus snickers.

“Patroclus did write them,” Briseis agrees.


The worst part is having to move all the equipment from Aulis to Troy. They have a speedboat, thank the gods. Patroclus curses Achilles’s decision to film the sacrifice to Artemis and the battle scenes simultaneously. He knows they only have the summer to finish the documentary, but still.

“One last scene!” Achilles reminds them, trying to keep spirits high.

He catches Patroclus’s eye on the boat. They can’t help but smile at each other a little, and Patroclus reaches under the microphone cords to squeeze Achilles’s hand. Despite everything, it’s a project they’re working on together. That’s why they argue all the time, because it’s something they both love, and can’t help getting riled up about.

“Let’s do this in one take!” Patroclus yells, and the rest of the cast chimes in their agreement.

At the end of the boat, Iphigenia has her head bowed over an Ancient Greek dictionary, headphones over her ears as she practices her words. They’ve decided not to cut out her lines after all.

The altar is well-constructed, a mound of grey stone overlooking the expanse of Aulis. On foggy days like this one, they can barely see the ocean.

“Well, it’s just a perfect day to kill your kid,” Agamemnon remarks, the camera pointed towards him.
“Personally, I’m using a dagger. It’s on loan from the university’s classical museum.”
Agamemnon lifts his knife, showing it off to the camera.
“They have a whole exhibit on the bronze age. We’ve gone twice already.” He nudges Iphigenia, who looks up from her dictionary.

“He’s just joking,” Iphigenia points out.
“Of course that’s not the real artifact. It’s made out of papier-mache.”


The sun peeks out just as they finish up the scene. The cast and crew stand around the rocky face of the mountain, a collective breath exhaled as they watch the sky tinted orange through the grey.

“And … that’s a wrap!” Achilles exclaims, grinning for the first time in ages.
“We’ve finished Aulis!”

There’s a resounding cheer, as it means they won’t have to make endless boat trips from one side of the sea to the other anymore. Of course, they will miss the place.

That night, smoke rises from the grill. It’s a club tradition to throw a barbecue every time they wrap up filming in a certain location.

The sound of a buzzing television lights up the atmosphere, as the crew crowds round to watch the University of Troy’s pankration match.

Achilles finds Patroclus walking on the shore.

“Don’t you love it when your feet sink into the sand?” Patroclus asks, water up to his knees. His toes are buried in the mush, and the sea is a well of ink around them. Achilles can’t help thinking it’s a lonesome place. A lonesome place for those warriors to meet their end. But the sea breeze is a cool touch against his cheeks, and he likes the way Patroclus looks through the strands of hair blown across his face.

“I entered us in the film festival,” he announces.

Patroclus looks surprised at first, but not really. He knows Achilles too well.

“You did? Do you think we’ll finish it in time?”

“Of course we’ll finish it in time,” Achilles laughs, carefree for just a moment. Tomorrow, it’s back to work.

Chapter 2: Week 2

Chapter Text

The crew has been up since pre-dawn, a sliver of moon still in the sky as it brightens layer by layer. Light falls onto the marble floors of the palace, its pillars casting shadows in silent rows.

It’s been raining the past few days, making it difficult to capture Troy the way they want it - sunlit rooms and golden interiors, a haven of luxury amidst the sea of war.

In the camera, the courtyard is still as a painting - the space portrayed from afar, so that a viewer might look at the screen and feel the depth of the room, feel small and lonely in comparison. It is this that Achilles examines, in his director’s chair as the cameraman works.

“We really need to work on a score,” Patroclus voices, cutting through the silence and making Achilles jump.

“This is a documentary.”

“But I think it could work! I could contact the music department.”

Achilles sighs. “We already spent so much time re-writing the script.”

“Hector and Andromache’s farewell scene is supposed to be moving. Did you think Schindler’s List would have been as much of a tearjerker without the amazing score?”

“ .... Honey. That is a different topic entirely. And must I repeat - this is a documentary.”

“He’s saying goodbye to his darling wife and son before you kill him and defile his corpse. The audience knows what’s going to happen. How can we make the wait that much more tense? With sweet, sweet music.”

“We’re not getting a score. And that’s final.”

“I’ll ask you later when you’re in a better mood!” Patroclus announces cheerfully, setting off in a sweep of shuffling papers.


It’s midafternoon by the time they’ve finished what the crew calls the Great Dress of Distress.

“Basically it’s a 911 call to Athena,” Antilochus explains, fresh-faced from the makeup room. “Hector is about to fight the Greeks and his mom goes, oh gods, what would help? What could Athena possibly want in return for her protection? I know, a dress!”

“And twelve cows,” Patroclus adds, placing a check mark next to it on the script.

“Don’t know what to sacrifice to your goddess? I would go for twelve cows,” Antilochus agrees.

“Because you need to eat and be fabulous.”

“That’s why I wear my chiton to the Korean barbecue place after filming wraps up for the day,” Antilochus nods.

“Join us!” Patroclus suggests, turning to the cameraman.

“Uh …”

“If you eat there ten times you get the tenth meal free.”

“Uh, sure.”


The sun has come peeking out from the clouds, giving the palace an ambient glow. They’ve started rolling again, but it’s only the first take. In Achilles’ experience, they’ve never wrapped a scene in only one take. It might take a miracle for that to happen.

Outside, the battle rages on.

A warrior’s footsteps race up the stairs of Troy’s famed tower - the seeing eye of the city, as they know it. As Hector reaches the top step, he notices the silhouette of his wife framed against the sand-colored backdrop.

Peals of laughter break the silence.

Achilles grumbles to himself as he starts to think that Patroclus is right, music would really set the scene.

More laughter, tiny footsteps stumbling over stone floor.

“Oi, whose kid is this?” Hector asks in confusion, picking up the toddler, who shrieks and kicks his legs in the air.

“That’s your kid, Hector,” someone from the crew points out in resignation.

Achilles sighs.

Hector turns to Achilles. “But I thought a child actor wasn’t in the budget.”

“We cut the budget for the Dress of Distress,” Achilles replies. Does every damn thing need an explanation?

“Ah. I thought it looked cheaper than before,” Hector nods, taking the child and swinging him around, ever the affectionate father.

“Stop that,” Achilles frowns. “He’s supposed to be afraid of you.”

But Hector keeps swinging Astyanax round and round, and the kid keeps laughing.
“Can’t hear you!” Hector yells.

“Take off your helmet!”

“I’m sorry?!”

“Take off your damn helmet!” Achilles huffs. “Andromache!” he exclaims in irritation, waving her over and gesturing for her to take Hector’s helmet off.

“I’m glad you decided to hire a human for this scene. It was a bit weird with Andromache holding that doll thing. Right?” Hector looks around for confirmation.

“This is the farewell scene. Get sad,” Achilles lashes back, waving for them to continue shooting.

They take a few minutes.

“Are you sad?”

“We’re sad!” Hector and Andromache chime back.

“You better be miserable!”

“Practically on the verge of a breakdown.”

“Take two,” Achilles orders.


“It’s tough being the first son. It’s all about duty, all about responsibility. Easy to cave in if you’re not in peak mental health. That’s why I like to dedicate a portion of my free time to my hobbies,” Hector explains.

The cameraman shifts to get a good angle of him. He’s taken off his shiny helmet, but doesn’t even get helmet hair - because he’s, well, Hector.

“Granted, there’s not a lot to do in Troy. Of course you can drink wine. You can pray to Apollo. You can choose some concubines.” Hector’s eyes gaze off into the distance as he thinks.
“Those are all things the average Trojan prince tends to enjoy.”

“But you’re not the average Trojan prince?” the cameraman presses.

“I’m afraid I’m a lot more boring than that.”

“We don’t get out much,” Andromache admits.
“Last night we finished a 10,000 piece jigsaw puzzle of our favorite god, Apollo.”

“That’s impressive,” the cameraman acknowledges.

“We also do origami. We made some horses a few days ago. It upset some people.”

“Bit of a sensitive subject, maybe?”

“Oh, but it was very relaxing. Andromache and I have to relax a lot or we’ll go crazy. War is pretty stressful on the city under siege.”

“The whole palace is attending group therapy, in fact. You can come with us for our morning session,” Andromache suggests, handing the cameraman a flyer.


“This feels like a campfire,” a soldier remarks, as the troops settle down rank by rank. “Are we going to hold hands and sing kumbaya?”

Seeing how clear the sky is, the armor from the costume department made ready, and the extras available to form the rest of the army, Achilles decides to shoot Paris and Menelaus’ duel today.

They’re in a beautiful clearing large enough to house a stadium. The soldiers sit down like eager children, some taking off their helmets in the heat, adjusting the straps of their armor, applying sunscreen.

“Are we ready?” Achilles demands.

On either side, Paris and Menelaus have been outfitted with sword and spear.

“Agamemnon, did you kill the rams?!”

“Hold on!”

“We can’t start shooting until you kill the rams!”

In the distance, Agamemnon uses his dagger to bleed out the sacrificial animals.
“Just another day at the office!” he observes, as the camera zooms in on him.

“Hurry up!”

There’s a few minutes of waiting as he finishes the job.

“Take one!” Achilles shouts. His voice is starting to get hoarse. He keeps thinking about Patroclus and the fucking background music and it gets on his nerves. It would be better with a score. He hates admitting the other man is right.

Paris and Menelaus square off against each other, getting ready for their spear throws. The soldiers on either side watch aghast, looking impressive, even though Achilles can spot one wearing sneakers and wants to scream.

Paris casts his spear, making a wide arc in the air.

Beautiful shot, Achilles can’t help thinking.

Then it’s Menelaus’ turn. He’s a much more aggressive fighter, and bounds into the circle for the attack.

The clearing rings with the sounds of metal against metal, of harsh breathing and feet kicking sand up from the ground.

“Agh,” Menelaus grunts, and breaks off from his combat stance. He holds a hand up apologetically.
“Sorry.”

He fumbles around in his pocket and fishes out a plastic inhaler.
“All this fighting is aggravating my asthma.”

“You okay, man?” Paris calls from the other side of the circle.

“Paris! Shut up and stay in character!” Achilles snaps.

“You okay, asshole?” Paris repeats.

“It’s really bad today,” Menelaus admits, and takes another puff of his inhaler.

“Fuck, we should have gotten a stunt double. I forgot about his condition,” Achilles grumbles. He can hear Patroclus sighing, even though the man is not here for this shoot. Patroclus would have remembered.

“Okay, I’m ready!” Menelaus declares. He doesn’t put away his inhaler.

“I can’t fight an asthmatic,” Paris objects. “It just seems wrong.”

“But you can sleep with his wife?!” Agamemnon demands, in the background.

“Yup. Nothing against that,” Paris shrugs, oblivious.

“Gods, I wish I were dead,” Achilles huffs. This is going to be a long day.

Chapter 3: Week 3

Chapter Text

 

From: [email protected]

Subject: READ THIS AT ONCE!!!

To: [email protected]

Attention all,

The wooden horse is NOT a venue for the viewing of pornography.

- Achilles

 


 

“It was a dark and stormy night,” Patroclus reads, squinting at the script.

Achilles can’t begin to count the number of times he’s told Patroclus to get reading glasses, but apparently his insight is worth fuck all.

“Hmm. I don’t know, Troy is quite a cheery place at the end of the day. For people who die so much, they sure throw a good barbecue.” Patroclus uncaps his marker and cancels out the first line.
“Note for ‘inaccurate’.” He scribbles it in the margin.

Achilles sighs and tries to read his newspaper. Patroclus can go all night on the typewriter when he chooses to rewrite a scene.
Click-clack click-clack.
Ring.
Click-clack click-clack.
Ring.

Why didn’t he get him the self-cleaning vacuum cleaner instead?

Before he can flip to the next page, the tent flap is thrown wide open.

“Achilles! You said you’d help me go over my lines!” Antilochus exclaims. Behind him, the cameraman trudges in, looking sheepish.

“... It’s. Three. In. The. Fucking. A.M,” Achilles growls.

“Where did you get your pajamas?” Antilochus questions, ignoring him completely.

Achilles lays his head on the table and chooses to pretend the other man doesn’t exist.

“Remember to eat before you go!” Patroclus reminds him.

“I’m not eating. I’m not going anywhere.”

“And Antilochus, why did you type the script in Helvetica? It’s hideous!!”

“Is that a band?” Antilochus questions, confused.

Patroclus waves the script around. “I told you to transcribe it, not mess around with how it looks!”

“I don’t know anything, Patroclus! I’m a pajama model, not an aerospace engineer!”

Achilles opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. Why bother? It’s not like anyone is going to listen to him. He rises to find a spot further away from them.

“Oh, Achilles, if you’re going then finish those oranges in the icebox,” Patroclus adds.

Achilles makes a grunting sound and leaves.

“But you need your vitamin C, Achilles! Achilles!!!”

Peace. He needs peace, or a semblance of it, at least.

“Wait, Achilles! When are we shooting my scene?” Antilochus cries, and hurries after him.

“Gods damn it!” Achilles snaps. “I’m scrapping the whole project! Forget the war! Forget the film festival! I’m switching my field to accounting!”

“Darling, you can’t. You have no qualifications,” Patroclus placates.

“Why did I want to make a documentary? Why didn’t you stop me?!” Achilles yells. He starts to run along the beach before they can catch up with him. The waves are dark as ale at this time of morning. He hopes to drown.


“It was very unfortunate,” Diomedes murmurs, holding up the obituary for all to see. “It seems the waves engulfed his fragile body.”

Mutters, all around him. People shaking their heads.

“Gods, Diomedes, put that away!” Briseis complains.

“What? It’s just a hobby!” Diomedes grumbles and clutches his scrapbook against his chest.

“Only freaks collect obituaries,” Briseis points out.

“Ha! I’d like to hear you say that when you’re dead and no one will write yours!”

“I’d be dead, why would I say anything!”

They seem not to notice the camera pointed right at them.

It’s a windy day, and nobody sees the crowd of extras parting down the middle. A bit of a commotion, starting up at the end.

“It’s Paris!”

Someone finds a megaphone.

“Paris is here!”

“Everybody on guard!”

“Hide your jewelry!!! Hide your wives!!!”

The alarm goes on for a few minutes.

“Hi guys,” Paris waves, joining them eventually.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” says Briseis.

“Well, what am I supposed to do, then?”

“Helen?” Diomedes suggests.

Paris shrugs.

Without Achilles around, they’re at a loss.

“I used to think all he did was sit in his chair and yell at us,” Diomedes explains to the camera, later on. “It turns out, ‘director’ is kind of an important role. Who would’ve thunk it.”

“As opposed to what?” Briseis questions, rolling her eyes.

Diomedes ignores her. “We were supposed to film my friendship armor exchange scene with Glaucus, but I guess that isn’t happening.” He heaves a sigh. “I even made a gift basket and everything.”

“Who’s Glaucus?” the cameraman asks, puzzled.

Diomedes looks taken aback. “He’s my pen pal!”
He roots around in his pocket and finds a bundle of letters.
“Dear Diomedes,” he reads, opening one of them.
“Troy is very beautiful in the summer. The apples grow in different hues. I thought they grew in crimson and chartreuse, but no, I must be thinking of different colors. Upon consulting the manual for paint samples, I decided that they are in fact, a rosy pink and goldish-yellow. Who knew apples could grow in so many shades? Last night I thought about making an apple pie, but as I contemplated further I realized I do not have the recipe for pie, but strudel. What is the difference, you may ask? I am uncertain myself, but it seems to be a matter of the measurement in butter. Of course, the Trojans do not make butter. You can imagine what a muddle it was, wandering the Trojan plains searching for a condiment that does not exist. Speaking of dairy -”

“Not the dairy!” Briseis mock-gasps.

 

Some time later

 

“ - goat’s milk, and sheep’s milk. That is all I can think of at the moment. I shall write again if more comes to mind.”
Diomedes closes the letter and slides it back into the envelope, wiping a tear from his eye.
“Just … just lovely.”

He looks up.

“Huh. I wonder where everyone else went.”


“It’s very important that you get a good night’s sleep,” Patroclus says, fussing with the hot water bottle. “As I’ve been saying for years, you’re very stressed.”

Achilles snorts. “Really? You’ve been saying that for years?”

“Shut up and eat your vitamins, dear.”

“You -mmph-hrrrrmmm-mmph ....”

“What was that?” Patroclus asks, placing a hand behind his ear with a smile.

Achilles glares at him from behind the mountain of pills.

Outside, the crew has resumed filming. They’ve had to battle eager tour groups coming in to see the dolphins. The set is an added bonus, the members of the cast in full costume. It’s not uncommon for soldiers to get stopped in the street for a quick photograph.

“I wish they would catch plague and die,” Achilles groans.

“Quite extreme, I’m sure.”

“I wish a tsunami would come and destroy their precious cruise ships.”

“Tsunamis don’t solve everything, Achilles.”

“Yes, they do.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Yes, they do.”

“No, they don’t.” Patroclus leans over and kisses him on the nose.

“They do. They wipe out humankind.”

“Nothing worse than humankind, of course.”

“Nothing worse,” Achilles agrees, starting to nod off.


“He has a cold,” Patroclus explains, as the sun peeks out from behind the hills. The land is bathed in green and gold. And the ocean, roaring behind them.

The tourists are up even at this hour, snapping pictures of the sunrise.

“A cold? In summer?” Antilochus demands.

Patroclus sighs. “I guess it’s up to us to keep the documentary going for now.”

Antilochus’ eyes light up in a feverish gleam. “Shit, let’s throw a party.”

“We can’t throw a party!”

“I’ll get the fireworks!”

“No! Antilochus, stop!”


They end up strolling through the supermarket, looking through the various aisles. Onlookers trip over their feet to stare at Antilochus, who insists on wearing full armor over his street clothes.

They stop at the fireworks shelf. Patroclus sees the look in Antilochus’ eyes, and gets a very bad feeling.

~~~

They’re gathered on the beach smoking sausages for the grill.

“Free hot dogs!” Antilochus yells, loud enough to rival the megaphone. He holds a stick of sausage on a poker and waves it around.
A few seconds later, a group of Trojans emerge from behind the wall.
“See? War over,” Antilochus grins, winking at the camera. “Never underestimate the power of bratwurst.”

Blue twilight softens the atmosphere, the tourists having scattered once the sun dips below the horizon. The sound of the waves is calming behind them. They’ve lit lanterns all along the Achaean encampment, the flames inside flickering against a soft wind.

“It’s rather romantic, isn’t it?” Antilochus asks, and fixes the cameraman with his stare.

“... Well …”

“Puts one in the mood.”

“The mood … for?”

“Is it lonely being a cameraman?”

“I …”

“It’s just you behind the lens. And you see everything that goes on, but can’t say anything.” Antilochus holds his hands out to frame the dark beach. “Ever the observer.”

“Um …”

“Stop flirting, Antilochus!” Patroclus calls from behind the packs of beer.

Antilochus makes an irritated noise. “You’ve ruined it!”

“He’s the best cameraman we’ve ever had and we don’t want to chase him away!”

“... What happened to the others?” the cameraman questions, worried.

“The usual. Death, destruction, disease …” Antilochus counts them off on his fingers. “But mostly they just got sick of Achilles bossing them around.”

“He’s not so bad,” the cameraman smiles.

“Are you kidding? He’s the absolute worst! Look at this email he sent us!” Antilochus roots around for his phone and pulls it up for the cameraman to see.

Slowly, the cameraman begins to laugh.

Antilochus leans forwards, eyes gleaming. “Say, you don’t happen to be interested in our secret club, do you?”

“Club?”

“Where we hide various pornographic items in random places for Achilles to find. We want to see how many emails it takes for him to crack!”

“I can hear you,” Patroclus states sternly, from behind them, hands on his hips.

“Oh hi, Patroclus! What brings you to these parts?” Antilochus greets, feigning nonchalance.

“Are you happy?! You’ve driven him to illness!” Patroclus roars.

“Oh boy,” the cameraman mutters, shifting away from them.


It’s the middle of the night when they begin the fireworks contest. Folding chairs drag through the sand, as everyone rushes for a glimpse. Cans rattling about in the icebox, the last of the sausages being passed around.

“Here we go!” Menelaus announces, lighting the first one.

It sends a shower of stars into the air, bursting across the sky in red and orange. The sound is loud enough to rival a tornado. Patroclus drags Achilles out of the tent to watch it.

Some of the Trojans have gathered on the wall, distant figures as small as toy soldiers.
On the other side of the wall, the Trojans begin their show. The patterns emerge in brilliant ovals, overlapping with each other.

“What are you doing here?” Menelaus asks, spotting Paris lurking by the tents. “You’re supposed to be on the Trojan side.”

Paris stands with his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know, man. It’s way more fun over here. And you guys have Risk: Trojan Edition.”

“Wanna play?” Menelaus offers.

Agamemnon spots them and runs to get the megaphone.
“Paris is here!!!” he yells. “Lock your mothers in the attic! Hide your -”

“Oh, shit,” Paris sighs.

“Let’s go to Mount Ida,” Menelaus suggests.
“No one will look for us there.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I brought a picnic.” Paris looks around for the basket he left behind one of the tents.
“I just didn’t know if you wanted to go.”

Menelaus hesitates, looking at the ground.
“I’ve been here for a long time, Paris. Seen the sights. Smelled the roses. But I have never -” Menelaus crosses his arms passionately.
Never met someone like you.”

Paris nods, looking solemn. “I tried to forget about you. I thought I could. But it’s impossible. I keep thinking about what happened the other night.”

“It was just -”

“It was the best Risk game I ever had!” Paris exclaims.
“The suspense. The intrigue. I’ve never felt this way before.”

“I feel the same way,” Menelaus replies. “I don’t care what people say about us. I would watch the world burn, if I could only have another game with you.”

“Oh, Menelaus.”

~~~

They sneak off into the night, picnic basket in hand. The camera fades out as their silhouettes disappear behind the grassy heights of Mount Ida.

Chapter 4: Week 4

Chapter Text

“Weekly announcement! We are no longer serving cheese platters in the refreshments room. Anyone who has a problem with this can take it up with management.”

A collective groan.

“Now, who would like to head off this week’s therapy session? Deiphobus?”

Deiphobus steadily avoids eye contact.

“Hector, would you like to begin?”

“No.”

“Hector, I think you should begin.”

“I start our sessions every week, and frankly, I’m getting sick and tired of this shit. Hector, fight for our kingdom! Hector, you picked up the wrong kid from playschool! Hector, get a graduate degree in mental health counseling so you’ll be better qualified to head group therapy! Well, fuck all that. Can’t a man be allowed to get tired? Because this is what I’m feeling. Tired. I’m so damn tired.”

There’s a brief silence while Polydorus nods.

“Well, Hector … so in short, you feel frustrated and overwhelmed by the great burden placed upon your shoulders, the need to defend your homeland, your parental responsibility, while still expected to act as emotional support for the people in this family.”

“That’s what I just said. You’ve just repeated … what I’ve just said.”

“It’s called reflective listening!” Polydorus protests.

“I’m sorry, what? Is this a mirror convention?” Deiphobus cuts in, suddenly straightening up.

“It’s on page forty-three of Foundations of Trojan Psychotherapy, First Edition!” Polydorus fumbles around for his copy, flipping through it frenetically.

“Sheesh,” Deiphobus remarks, rolling his eyes.

“That was literally just everything that I said,” Hector insists, raising a hand and frowning.

“Step 1. Acknowledge the speaker. Step 2. Summarize what the speaker has confided. Step 3 -”

“You forgot to acknowledge me,” Hector interrupts, staring hard at Polydorus.

The group waits in silence.

“... I suppose I did.”

“Well, he wasn’t supposed to be speaking without the talking pillow anyway!” Deiphobus objects.
“Where is it?! Who had it last?”

It takes a while to search for the talking pillow.

“Okay, Hector, now it’s your turn to speak! We hear you, we acknowledge you, and this is a safe space.” Polydorus grins.

Hector purses his lips, trying to think.
“That’s it.”

“What?”

“That’s all I have to say.”

“But -”

“Look, that’s the sum of my problems, alright? Just cough up the Xanax and let me get out of here.”

“I’m afraid I can’t write a prescription for that, I’m not a physician.”

“Well then you’re useless, Polydorus.”

“Yeah, Polydorus, you’re pointless.” Deiphobus agrees, standing up and kicking his chair to the floor.

“The Greeks have a physician. What’s his name now? Maybe we can ask him to write us a prescription.”

“Okay, fine, so the Greeks have everything!!!” Polydorus shouts, cheeks turning red. “What do you want me to do?”

Hector and Deiphobus share a glance.

“Well, for one, bring back the cheese platter.”

“... I told you to bring that up to management.”

“You are management, Polydorus! Gods! Ares-Apollo-and-Aphrodite! Why can’t we have a decent feta when we ask for it?” Hector growls in frustration.

“We’re feta than this,” Deiphobus adds, and does a thumbs-up.

There’s a short pause.

Polydorus throws the talking pillow at him.

“Hey! It’s not feta use violence!”

“Attack him. Attack him, Hector!!” Polydorus grits out, nostrils flared, guards activated. There is nothing in this world he hates more than -

“He’s just getting feta up with your shit,” Hector puts in, an identical shit-eating grin forming on his face.

“Shut up! Shut up!” Polydorus screams, covering his ears with his hands.

“Oh, curd your enthusiasm, ole pal!” Deiphobus exclaims cheerfully.

“I think we’ve rennet him speechless, brother!” Hector grins, clapping a hand on Deiphobus’ shoulder.

They chase Polydorus around the palace, a pair of greyhounds after the timid pug.


There’s something inherently beautiful about a late afternoon.
No matter where, no matter when.

The cameraman looks down and spots a hermit crab between the walls of his toes.
He lifts the camera to film it, thinks twice, and stops.
He films the person across from him instead.
The rest of it - feeling is enough.

Wind threatens to blow his tripod over, and he’s taken exactly twelve pictures of tourists on the beach.
He and Antilochus come up with names for them all.

“Look, Bartholomew’s getting up. Which flavor of ice cream is he ordering next?” Antilochus asks.

They’re like two spies under the shelter of their beach umbrella, surveying the ocean.

“Mint chocolate chip,” the cameraman guesses.

“I bet five dollars it’s rocky road.”

“You’re awfully good at guessing.”

“Maybe you’ll get a chance to win your money back.”

Antilochus roots around in the pocket of his pajama pants and comes up with the last fifteen, winnings from three rounds in a row.
“You know, cameraman …”

“Hmm?”

“Despite his pot-bellied nature, I bet Bartholomew’s had an interesting and robust romantic history.”

“Oh?”

“I bet even now, he thinks about the last love who made him happy.”

The cameraman thinks about it. Thinks about something interesting and robust to say, even though Antilochus seems plenty content when he says nothing.
“Maybe he had a mint chocolate chip ice cream with her.”

“Maybe - maybe he had a different flavor with each of his lovers. And every time he orders that ice cream, he thinks of them.”

“Interesting.”

Antilochus smiles.
“Just like every time I see a camera on the beach, I’ll think of you.”

“ANTILOCHUS! STOP FLIRTING!”

The voice comes out of nowhere, making the cameraman jump.

Antilochus, perturbed, gets up from his makeshift sand-chair.
“WHAT?” he roars. “That’s like asking me to stop being handsome! It’s too much! It’s too much!”

“We like this cameraman and we want to keep him!” Briseis and Patroclus pop out of nowhere.

“Fuck, we’ve been spied on,” Antilochus breathes, looking impressed. He shakes his head in amusement.
“Come on, cameraman. Gotta know when to admit defeat when you see it.”

The cameraman begins packing up his equipment.

Briseis and Patroclus watch their every move, sunglasses lowered in their direction.

“Hey, Antilochus -” he gets out, before he can stop himself.

He doesn’t talk. He’s a cameraman and it’s not his job to talk. Ever the silent observer.

“Yes, cameraman?” Antilochus questions, as though knowing exactly what he’s about to say.

He finds himself clutching his bag closer to his chest, wishing he did have something substantial to say. He shakes his head instead.

Antilochus laughs easily - the way he always does. When they pass by Briseis and Patroclus, he flips them off.


Patroclus wakes up in the middle of the night, thinking of pickled beets.
His stomach must have been growling because Achilles is awake and glaring at him like an irascible ginger cat.

“What?”

More glaring.

Patroclus throws the covers off, sitting up.
What?

“I liked the script.”

“Really?!”

This is cause to celebrate. This is cause for pickled beets. Achilles usually makes him rewrite scenes to the point of enragement.

“We’ll begin shooting tomorrow.”

Tomorrow …

“Tomorrow?” he echoes, quite unable to believe it. Achilles has been under the weather for the better part of a week. All the while growing angrier and angrier while he festers under blankets, herbal soup, and a mountain of pills.

Patroclus wonders if he should feel afraid for the crew. Maybe he should.

“Don’t murder anyone tomorrow, Achilles.”

“I’ll do what I want.”

Patroclus sighs. “Perhaps just a little bit.”

“Just a little bit,” Achilles agrees.

“A little bit of murder never hurt anyone.”


The camera crawls at a snail’s pace, taking in the length of the wall.
Its battlements, guarded to a man.

Xanthos and Balios, the glorious team of horses, strike at the ground.
“Hrrrghh!” one of the crew members exhales, attempting to mimic an equine snort.
“Neighhh.”
“Harruff.”
“That’s a dog, man.”
Neighhh.”

It’s difficult getting live horses. Especially since Antilochus screwed up their livestock license. They’re stuck with four men in a costume, and papier-mache when it fits.

“... what I’m saying, Achilles, is that this department store mannequin is not up to task.”

The argument has been going on for three hours.

“Guys, please hurry up. When the sun sets we’ll lose a day!” Patroclus urges.

“When the sun rises we’ll gain a day,” Hector retorts. He turns back to Achilles. “Anyway. I am just offended that you didn’t ask me!”

“... You want to be tied to the back of a chariot and dragged around for all of Troy to see?” Achilles questions, eyebrow raised.

Hector crosses his arms in defiance.
“Name one reason why I shouldn’t do it.”

“... Road rash?”

This gods-damned dummy is a mockery of all things Trojan! Look at his eyes! Dead eyes. Look at his clothes! Designer. I would never!”

“We can change the clothes,” Achilles huffs.

“And his hair. Disgusting.”

“You’re a corpse, of course you’ll be disgusting! Why is this a subject of contention?” Achilles demands, throwing up his hands.

The rest of the cast stand around, trying to decide.

“I don’t know, Achilles. Hector always looks perfect. Even when he’s dead he looks perfect.”
“Yeah, don’t the gods have a special ointment or something?”
They scratch their heads.

“Where is this magical corpse-preserving ointment then?” Achilles asks.

“I think it’s just Vaseline!” Antilochus suggests, jumping up. “I can get some from my trunk!”

“And you tied me up all wrong! Real Hector likes the clove hitch knot,” Real Hector declares, kneeling and retying the knots around Dummy Hector’s body.

Kinky,” Diomedes whispers, only to be smacked in the back of the head by Briseis.
“What kind of knot do you like, Briseis?”
Another smack.

It takes another hour or so to get Dummy Hector up to Real Hector’s standards.
The sun sets, and they end up losing a perfect filming day. The cast and crew sit around the wall of Troy, exhausted from the wait.

“Two hours and forty minutes,” Antilochus observes, watching Real Hector and Achilles fuss over the dummy.
“That’s how long it took for the Titanic to sink.”

“Are you saying what I’m thinking?” Diomedes asks.

“That this project is a sinking ship? You might just be on to something there, Diomedes. You might just be on to something.”


In the passing time, they’ve set up a few small tents around the area.
No one notices a rope ladder unrolled over the wall, a dark figure descending.

The buzzy light from a handheld video game console illuminates one of the tents. Nylon fabric ruffles a little, an intruder crawling through the opening, stomach to the ground.

“Hi.”

Menelaus starts, the video game console leaping from his hands.
“Paris!”

He pokes his head outside the tent, checking to make sure there are no bystanders.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Oh. Just playing Get the Gouda.”

“Get the … Gouda?”

“You play as an amateur cheesemaker on the banks of Troy. It’s a choice-based game, see.” Menelaus tilts the screen to show him. “Will you use raw milk or pasteurized? Each decision bears lasting consequences for the length of the game.”

“Now you’re making me hungry,” Paris sighs.
“My brother stopped serving cheese platters at our TT meetings.”

“What a monster.”

Paris glances outside the tent, where Real Hector is still adjusting the dummy. “You see the kind of sociopaths I have to live with?”

“My brother is one. I understand completely.”
They settle down and play until the sky turns black.


In the morning, Briseis and Diomedes serve up a breakfast buffet to thank everyone for waiting.
“Bacon and eggs! Bacon and eggs!”

“What’s that, Dummy Hector?” Real Hector asks, craning his neck to listen. He catches Achilles’ gaze. “You heard him, Achilles.”

Achilles rolls his eyes and refuses to respond.

“He says to pass the eggs. Achilles, pass the eggs.”

“Fuck off.”

“How vulgar!” Real Hector objects, covering Dummy Hector’s ears with his hands.

“... Is he okay?” Patroclus asks, frowning at the Hectors.

Achilles lowers his head, mumbling to himself.

“What was that?” Patroclus presses.

“I should have just listened to him when he wanted to do the dragging stunt.”

“Dummy Hector says it’s too late. Dummy Hector has mastered the art of being Hector and would like a chance to appear in the documentary,” Real Hector says.

“For gods’ sakes!” Achilles thunders, leaping up off his chair.
“I said you can do the stunt if you want! We’ll cover you in Vaseline and you’ll be just fine!”

“We’re not speaking to you,” Real Hector replies. He and Dummy Hector turn their chairs around, backs to Achilles.

“I hate actors. I hate them!” Achilles announces, and storms off by himself.


Come nightfall, the entire cast and crew have put up a large screen in the middle of the beach, projector at the ready.
It reminds the cameraman of drive-in movie theaters, huddled in the back of a car on a first date.
The beach is covered in a mosaic of colorful blankets.

“You think it’ll be like this?” Diomedes asks. “When we screen our documentary at the film festival?”

“I don’t know, Diomedes,” Briseis admits. “Time is running out. We’re a month in, and there’s still … so much left unfinished. So many pieces to the puzzle.”

Diomedes contemplates it. “It’s the mother of all projects, isn’t it? Trying to encompass this war … on film.”

“Do you think people really want to see a long-dead war come alive?” Briseis questions. “I mean, what do people really want to watch? Will we even have an audience? Or are we doomed to sink into obscurity, losing out to Saturday afternoon soap operas?”

“I, for one, think people would pay to see Briseis,” Diomedes replies. “In fact, I think people should pay to see Briseis. Fabled queen, war prize of a fallen hero. It’s the stuff of legends, man. The stuff of legends.”

“Oh shut up, lame-o. Don’t make me be civil to you.”

Diomedes shrugs. “Hey, I tried, didn’t I?”

After a moment, Briseis smiles back. “Yeah. Maybe no one will want to watch the documentary. But it’s damn fun while it lasts, right? It’s damn fun.”

Chapter 5: Week 10

Chapter Text

“Honey?”

A soft rustle of sheets, a body turning to the side.
And Achilles’ arm resting against his pillow, a warm weight and a familiar one; the way it is every night.

“What?” Full voice. So he’s awake.

“My face hurts.”

“I don’t understand why you had to have your wisdom teeth pulled out in the middle of shooting.” Words coming like the lash of a whip, the way Achilles speaks when he’s upset but not really.

“And my jaw …”

The other man sighs and shifts closer.

When he snuggles close he can smell Achilles’ chosen laundry detergent, one sinewy shoulder mashed up against his nose.

“I’ve lost my mind,” he whispers, and kisses that sinewy shoulder.

“No, darling. You’ve just lost your teeth.”

He laughs. “The good ones, too.”

“They gave you that horrid toothache.”

“And you said you were mad about the documentary.”

“We’ve lost a few good filming days, so what.”

Patroclus lets out the breath he’s been holding. “The summer’s almost over,” he observes, just as Achilles’ fingers start to tangle through his hair.
“It’s the middle of the night. We’re in a tent. And the summer is … almost over.”

Was it a waste?

Have they failed?

Not too long until the deadline. And he can’t stop thinking about whether or not they have wasted their lives, wasted their time, wasted the good years.

He thinks about accounting school, and snorts with the beginning of laughter. Then he goes to sleep.

 


“What was the first documentary you ever watched?” Antilochus asks. He’s looking straight at the camera, the sunlight framing his hair like an iridescent halo.

He’s the opposite of angelic, the cameraman can’t help thinking to himself. Those devilishly good looks. That boyish grin. The camera loves him, and it must be why he’s the chosen spokesperson for the documentary, even when Achilles can’t stand him most days.

“Happy People,” the cameraman replies, remembering that he’s been asked a question.

Antilochus gives him a questioning look. Not the camera - him.
“There’s a documentary about Happy People? There’s … such a thing ... as happy people?” The question is completely serious, even accompanied by a teasing smile.

“It’s about fur trappers in Siberia,” the cameraman adds. He looks at his feet and clenches his toes. He does a lot of foot-viewing and toe-clenching around the other man. Too bad the camera doesn’t catch any of that.

A short burst of laughter.
“That’s something.”

“No, really. It’s … it really does make you feel better when you watch it. Or rather, it makes you feel nothing. And nothingness is a good feeling.”

“Nothingness is happiness?” Antilochus guesses.

The cameraman shrugs. “Peace, maybe.”

“So shouldn’t it be called Peaceful People, rather than Happy People?”

“But it is about people who are happy.”

“Well, what are they so happy about?”

“I don’t know, Antilochus. What are you happy about?”

The other man doesn’t answer for a second. The camera loves his silence as much as it does his conversation.

“This,” Antilochus answers.

The cameraman feels something crawl into his belly and stay there, curled up.
He doesn’t want this to be over.

“You know, the tourists are filing out. It must be a bad omen.” It’s not that Antilochus changes the subject, he just talks in circles. They were discussing Bartholomew and his ice cream lovescapades before the camera was turned on.
And of course, he has to stop talking. He’s the cameraman. He’s allowed the occasional question. An opinion, absolutely not. And any more than that, well …

“Ever think about turning that thing off?” Antilochus asks. They both look at the camera.

There are so many things he wants to say.
But he’s not supposed to, you see. And once they wrap up filming, he’ll go back to school. Antilochus will go back to modeling pajamas.
And that’ll be it. That’ll be it.

The thought fills him with such loneliness that he grips the camera hard in his hands, and pretends it isn’t so.


 

“This is getting out of hand.”

Dummy Hector has been placed on the beach beneath the sand. They’ve taken to securing marionette strings over his limbs, so that he pops up and scares unsuspecting tourists every time they wander too close to the set.

“So, did you meet him?” Briseis questions, idle conversation.
She hands Diomedes the bottle of sunscreen, not because she doesn’t want him to burn (a red, peeling Diomedes is the funniest thing in the world), but because the sunscreen is about to expire and she doesn’t want to waste it. Who buys 30 dollar sunscreen, anyway? Her mother. Her mother does.

“Who?”

“Your pen pal.”

“Oh …” Diomedes’ shoulders slump. “We were supposed to film the armor exchange … and it never happened. That was the week Patroclus got the toothache, remember?”

Briseis thinks about it. “I can’t remember anything these days,” she grumbles.

“I can’t even remember which scenes we have to refilm … you know, because we lost all that footage?”

“It’s Antilochus’ fault,” Briseis points out. It’s always Antilochus’ fault.

“I don’t know about you, but sometimes I just want to give up,” Diomedes lets out. He fumbles in his pocket for a pack. “Smoke?”

“No thank you.”

“Oh come on, live a little, queen -”

“I told you not to call me that!”

“As I was saying, maybe my folks were right. I should have aimed for a real career instead of going to film school.”

“I thought you were just part of the film club,” Briseis mentions.

“Big dreams,” Diomedes shrugs. “They ruin everything.”

“Oh really? Well, what would you have done instead?”

“Carpentry, I think. I would have made a damn good carpenter. Thing is, Briseis - I don’t think school’s really for me.”

She falls back a little in … shock, maybe. It’s just not what she expected Diomedes to say.
“But …”

“But what?”

“I thought you were …” She thought he was what? A damn good writer? Just because of that one obituary that made her cry?

People keep surprising her. And not for the better.

“I know you liked my obituaries, Briseis - but there’s no future in that. The truth is, I’m confused. I’m very confused. And I think carpentry is the key to solving my confusion.”

“Either way, I don’t think you should leave school. Not yet,” she sounds out, and surprises herself by doing so.

“Look at us, Briseis! A bunch of what, pharmacy students -”

“Menelaus is a pharmacy student.”

“He’s an asthmatic!”

“And so is Paris.”

“- a bunch of pharmacy students, and IT people, and teachers - fucking teachers! All in this together for this documentary, and I’m the fool who’s actually enrolled in film school.”

“You wanted to make movies?” she guesses.

“... I thought I could be like Achilles,” he admits. But Achilles has actual talent. Diomedes, on the other hand -

“We’re young,” Briseis offers. “We’re allowed to be indecisive.”

“But for how long, Briseis? For how long?”

“I don’t know,” she grins. “If it were up to me, I’d be young until the age of eighty. And then it’s all downhill from there.”

“Eighty, huh? That’s a good number to aim for.”

 


The reason Patroclus feels sick is because he got up at two o’ clock and gorged himself on a bowl of apple pie filling.
“They said my teeth were a biohazard,” he’d moaned, right before falling asleep again.

In the morning he wonders if it had just been a dream.
But then his jaw aches when he eats the soup and instant porridge Achilles has dutifully prepared. And sleeps for four hours in the afternoon, the rest of the script lying forgotten in the corner of their tent.

 


“Maybe it was a bad idea to send a fruit basket,” Hector observes.
“The fruit will go bad before he has a chance to eat them.”

“Unless you had the sense to send some soft fruit like figs and ripe peaches -”

“Of course I didn’t,” he interrupts, and hugs Dummy Hector to his chest.

Andromache huffs and arranges the sheets around them.
“Do we look like John Lennon and Yoko Ono yet?” she asks, and smiles sheepishly at the camera.
“This documentary might as well be called Bed Peace.”

The cameraman readjusts the frame a little and gives her a polite nod.

“Don’t spoil it for me!” Hector objects. “I haven’t seen that one yet.”

“You could grow your hair,” Andromache teases him.

“And look like Jesus.”

“And look like John Lennon,” Andromache corrects.

The cameraman clears his throat a little to get their attention. Achilles is going to be livid if they get on the wrong track again. Achilles is always livid, come to think of it.

“Do you know, that if I die in the war, you can use Dummy Hector as a sort of body pillow?”

“You’d kill me for stealing your body pillow,” Andromache points out.

“He’s immensely comfortable for someone who used to be a store-bought mannequin,” Hector confesses.

The cameraman looks around the room once he has the frame right. It’s possible he’s entered some sort of surreal parallel universe. Hector is splayed over the right side of the bed (camera left) like a tired starfish, limbs in every direction as if he’s suddenly stopped working.
“I need my batteries recharged,” he explains, miming opening the slot in his belly and plugging in a couple of wires.

Andromache mimes reviving him with a defibrillator machine.

“You know, war takes a toll on the body. You have no idea. I’ve got joint pain at the age of thirty. I’ve got a headache every day. I think I’ve prematurely aged from not wearing enough sunscreen -”

“That’s all he talks about every night,” Andromache mutters, rolling her eyes.

“Did I send a card along with the fruit basket?”

“Stop thinking about it!” Andromache exclaims. “It’s already been sent, it’s over and done with.”

“I’m just worried about getting osteoporosis.”

Andromache forgets about the camera and shuts off the light. “Goodnight, sweetie.”

A smooching noise.

“Kiss Dummy Hector too!”

“No.”

“Kiss him!”

No.”

“When you married me you married him as well! It’s in the prenup.”

Silence.

The cameraman sits in the dark, wondering if he should say something. He suddenly regrets taking a seat on the bed, because if he moves, they’ll remember he’s there.
It’s a little bit silly to stay here all night out of embarrassment.
Maybe he should take Antilochus’ advice and turn the camera off for now.


 

They’ve reached the tenth level, and celebrate with the fancier brand of potato chips and a miniature cheese board.
The screen lights up their faces in the otherwise dark tent.
The air is permeated by the sounds of fingertips on console buttons.

It’s Paris’ turn to make the choices. He surveys the screen, considering their three options for a bride.
A speech bubble to the side lets them know that their mother is pressuring them to choose the right girl.

“So who do we pick?!” he agonizes.
“The one who eats the rind or leaves on too much cheese?” He looks at the third girl. “Or maybe the one who eats just the right amount of cheese and leaves the adequate amount of rind behind on the plate?”

Menelaus considers this. “Nah … no one likes a perfectionist.”

“So that leaves us the wasteful girl or the one who eats the rind. Who does that?”

“Personally, I think it’s cool she liked our cheese enough to eat even the rind,” Menelaus says. “She takes the good with the bad. Isn’t that what a marriage should be like?”

“I don’t know, Menelaus. Didn’t your wife leave you?” Paris shoots back.

Menelaus lifts his eyes from the screen to blink at him.

There’s a brief moment of quiet.

They burst into laughter.

Menelaus wheezes so hard he has to take a puff of his inhaler.

They begin their side quest manufacturing enough mozzarella for the wedding feast when they hear footsteps outside the tent.

“Shh!” Menelaus hisses, and covers them quickly with a blanket. “It’s Agamemnon.” The screen flickers, they scramble to turn the volume down.

Paris squeezes his eyes shut and presses his face against the ground. He’s fucking terrified of Agamemnon, not that he’ll ever admit it. Looking at Menelaus, it’s hard to believe someone so earnest and mild-mannered is related to the human equivalent of King Kong.

He must have said it out loud because Menelaus shakes with laughter and has to take another puff of his inhaler.

The footsteps stop outside their tent.
No crickets. No swaying of grass. Not even a trace of moonlight. It’s eerily silent.
“Hey Menelaus?” Paris whispers.

“Huh?”

“Do you have a good relationship with your brother?”

“Hmm …”

“I mean, he’s paying for you to study pharmacy, right?”

“Well …”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to answer.”

“On paper, I have a good relationship with him,” Menelaus replies, adjusting the blanket so he has more room to breathe.

“I fucking hate my brothers,” Paris throws out, to make it even. “Like, I would dance on their graves kind of hate.”

“I’m sure you don’t mean that,” Menelaus answers, gently.

He doesn’t know what to say to that. “... Yeah. Maybe I don’t.”

“Why are we lying in the dark and talking about our feelings?” Menelaus asks politely.

He starts.

“Not that I don’t like it, I was just curious,” Menelaus adds quickly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Paris huffs, suddenly embarrassed. He’s never embarrassed. “Just that, you’re pretty darn easy to talk to. I’m not sure why Helen left you. You’re clearly a much better person than me.”

“I’m not,” Menelaus states, matter-of-fact.

“You are.”

Menelaus takes a deep breath. The screen illuminates his face just enough that Paris can see his eyes flicking left and right, hesitant.
“Once, when we were children, I told Agamemnon that his actual brother had died and I was just a ghost come back to haunt him. And that he was the only one who could see me.”

“...”

“And I made the whole palace participate so he had to believe. I would do all sorts of horrible things to him, and the servants just pretended not to see. It … went on for years.”

“…”

Menelaus purses his lips and bows his head. “I know.”

“Dude. That is so fucked up.”

I’m fucked up,” Menelaus replies.

There’s a lengthy silence as Paris tries to remember the most awful thing he did to his brothers. The list goes on.

“When he figured it out, though.” Menelaus chuckles, amused and not. “I guess I deserved that.”

“But, we must all be fucked in the head for fighting in this stupid war,” Paris decides. “I just want to hang out with you and play video games exploring the life, decisions, and consequences of an amateur cheesemaker on the banks of Troy.”

“I wish we could just run away together and start a pharmacy selling inhalers to the asthmatics of the world,” Menelaus agrees.

Paris sighs, wishing it too. “Where would we even go?”

“I don’t know,” Menelaus shrugs. “Someplace far away and cheese-centric, like …. Wisconsin.”

Paris nods wistfully. “Wisconsin is very far away from Troy. Maybe even … too far away.”

“You’d do it, right?” Menelaus asks, suddenly jerking forwards and grabbing him by the arms. “If I came to you one day and said hey, I got us two plane tickets to Wisconsin! You’d come with me?”

“That’s crazy!” Paris exclaims. They both notice it isn’t an objection.

The screen buzzes at them to indicate they’re low on battery.
Menelaus looks at the console, then at Paris, then at the surrounding darkness. He lets out a breath, a little sigh-laugh.
“We’ll see just how fucked in the head we really are, won’t we?”

“Now … if only Patroclus would get better and finish the script. It’s taking so long.”

“That cameraman doesn’t even come round anymore. Maybe he’s been scared off like the others …”

Chapter 6: Week 11

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Crack.

“Arghhh.”

Cr-cr-crack.

“Uhhhhh.”

Cr.

“Hm.”

Crack!Crack!Crack!

“Ohhhhhhh.”

“OI! You guys making a porno in there?!” Aggressive rustling of their tent flap, seeing as there’s no door to bang on.

Achilles lifts his head. “Piss off!”

“Stop, Achilles, you’re going to undo all my work!” Patroclus exclaims, pushing his head back down into the travel neck pillow they’ve set up on their makeshift massage table. “You see?! All your knots are winding up again!” He frantically presses his fingers along the shoulder blades, feeling the tension where Achilles holds himself stiff.

“Knots? What is this, the boy scouts?”

“Shhhh. Relaaax.” Patroclus rummages in his emergency backpack, finds a candle in a tin container, and places it in front of Achilles. The sound of the match striking fills the space, and the resulting flame warms his fingertips. He begins again.

A minute later, he smells something he’ll never forget.

“Ouch! It’s burning my hair!” Achilles exclaims, and leaps off the massage table. The wooden contraption collapses into a heap, the candle with it.

They watch it fall in practical slow motion, the dancing flame licking the edge of the wood …

“... Fuck …” Patroclus manages, before their tent catches fire.


“How. Did. This. Happen. How?! You IDIOTS!” Agamemnon screams, a whip cracking against the ground an inch away from Achilles’ and Patroclus’ hunched and sorry backs.
The whip cracks again, and Agamemnon forgets his tirade, distracted by the way it twirls into the air, how the sound makes everyone around him jump.

Diomedes opens and closes his mouth, points a wavering finger at the scene. “... Who gave Agamemnon a whip?”

“He probably just brought it from home.”

“Is it from his room? EW!” Diomedes exclaims, gets up and scurries away like a small child finding dried up chewing gum under the seat.

Briseis doesn’t answer, merely sits tapping her feet and watching the volunteers finish their work on Achilles and Patroclus’ smoking tent. It’s burnt to smithereens, but at least they stopped the fire before it spread. At least.

“You think Patroclus would give me a massage?” Diomedes questions, a minute later.

Patroclus' head perks up at the question, only to droop again at a glare from Achilles.

Agamemnon continues whipping nothing in particular, and the volunteers start sighing and griping at him for blocking their way.

“Just let him,” Patroclus mutters. “At least it’s keeping him occupied.”
He gets a bunch of evil looks thrown his way, but nobody says anything.

~~~

“Okay, everyone! Because of the incident that happened yesterday at 2 p.m., we are now required to complete a fire drill!” Polydorus yells, strutting around in his plastic fireman’s hat.

“Why are you here?!” an extra jeers.
“No Trojans on the Greek camp!” another heckles.

Polydorus stops his pacing and stares them down. “Deiphobus,” he says, voice going deadly quiet. Deiphobus, who has been standing guard in the background, steps forward and drags the two bothersome extras to the front.

“Mmmmrrrrr-mphhh!”
Startled shrieks and yelps, eyes widening. The crowd of fire drill attendees watch on, murmuring in bewilderment amongst themselves.

“Anyone. I mean ANYONE. Who DARES question my authority. Will have rotten cheese shoved down their throats by my brother Deiphobus!” Polydorus booms.

“Where’d you get the cheese?” someone asks in curiosity.

Polydorus’ entire countenance shifts, turning to address the questioner with a friendly smile. “Oh! It’s from all the cheese platters that went bad at our group therapy!” He lets out a nervous chuckle. “They insisted I keep providing them, but no one ever ate any, so what’cha gonna do, right?”

“Right,” the onlooker agrees, nodding politely.
After a second -
“And where’d you get that fireman’s hat?”

“A Shirt Won’t Hide the Hurt on 34th Street,” Polydorus replies. He reaches for his journal. “Do you need the directions?”

“Oh no,” the person assures him. “I’ve passed by it before. Neat place.”

“Um, Polydorus?” Deiphobus reminds him, gesturing towards the crowd still waiting for their fire drill.
“You forgot something.”

~~~

“It’s not fair that we have to attend this stupid fire drill and Antilochus doesn’t!” Diomedes complains.

“He’ll be here,” Briseis states, putting in her earbuds to shut him out with the music of ABBA.
She would rather listen to outdated pop music than Diomedes.
She would rather listen to a cat yowling in an empty street than Diomedes.
She would rather listen to a drunkard vomiting into a serene Japanese river than Diomedes.
She would rather listen to her mother’s nagging than Diomedes.
She would rather listen to a piece of metal scraping against a rougher piece of metal than Diomedes.
She would rather listen to a middle-aged man getting bitten by a mosquito, going “oh” in surprised disappointment, and slapping the mosquito to no avail, than Diomedes.
She would rather listen to a Swiss-German pornographic film than Diomedes.
She would rather -

“Oh great, he’s here,” Diomedes grumbles, and makes room on their bench for Antilochus.

“Move over, dumbass,” Briseis insists, and they make two additional spots so the cameraman can have a place to sit, too.
“What took you so long?”

“Well, the makeup team quit because we can’t afford to pay them anymore. So I just spent three hours in the makeup tent and I don’t know what anything is!” Antilochus exclaims. His face is smeared with patches of different colored skin tones, black mascara dots under his eyes like someone has drawn ellipses on his face. He doesn’t seem to notice, or care.

Briseis looks at the cameraman, who shrugs.

In the front, Polydorus and Deiphobus are handing out free t-shirts to entice everyone to stay. They slowly make their way to the back, like two ants crawling towards a lump of sugar. Diomedes waves and someone in the front tosses them a bunch of extra t-shirts.

“What’s this?” Diomedes questions, unrolling his t-shirt. “Troubled … Trojan? Morning sessions include free breakfast?”

“Oh sorry!” Deiphobus cuts in, and hastily grabs the shirt back. “Our therapy t-shirts somehow got mixed in there, not sure how, ha-ha.”

“You guys get free breakfast and mental health services?” Diomedes asks, appalled.

“And free t-shirts,” Briseis chimes in.

“Yeah, ‘cause we need to advertise our depression,” Deiphobus replies, and rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“Why don’t we have this kinda thing?! Sheesh! Everything is better in Troy!” Diomedes huffs. He’s too upset to put on the correct t-shirt.
Antilochus takes his instead and wears it over his blue-and-white striped pajamas. Along with the assortment of cosmetics on his face, he resembles a member of a lost tribe who doesn’t know how to dress himself.
The cameraman snaps a picture of him when he isn’t looking.

Antilochus realizes and starts. “Was it good?”

The cameraman shrugs and smiles. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“We have to develop the pictures first.”

An excited smile spreads over Antilochus’ face. “Like we did with Bartholomew and the others?”

A nod.

Briseis watches the exchange while a chorus blares in her ears. It’s so strange, like movie magic playing right before her eyes. Now she’s the camera, and it’s something to think about.


It’s been a long day and he’s so fucking tired. Miraculously, they manage to salvage Patroclus’ precious typewriter in the soot. The thing is indestructible. Like Patroclus himself, who sits peeling tangerines (satsumas? What’s the fucking difference?) and nonchalantly pulling out the segments one by one.

He sighs and takes a seat beside Patroclus. They’re forced to tent-hop now that they’re virtually tentless. Tonight Antilochus has agreed to host them, and Achilles already regrets it. Three sleeping bags have been unrolled on the ground; one oversized (exactly how enormous do they think he is?), one normal-sized, one a kid’s XL sleeping bag (which Antilochus claims being able to fit). Goldilocks and the three fucking bears. He misses their tent already.

Patroclus slides over some freshly peeled oranges/tangerines/satsumas (clementines? What the fuck are clementines?) without a word, and he eats them, without a word. They can hear the ocean outside, no other noise save for quiet chewing and the peel of the orange leaving the flesh.
It’s almost … nice.
Reminds him of nights in his dad’s house after they’d first gotten married and had nowhere to stay. Not that they have anywhere to stay now. Without the documentary, without their tents on the beach, they’re just another young penniless couple without a roof over their heads. He hates depending on other people, but that’s an old argument.

“Sweet and juicy, right?” Patroclus asks, happily eating the satsutangeromentines. “I’m surprised you’re eating, you hate fruit.”

“Well. You always say I need my vitamin C.”

A chuckle. “That’s because you got scurvy once, baby.”

And it was not fun.

They continue eating in silence, and for once he can enjoy the moment. Funny how it’s the aftermath of disaster that calms his racing mind, not a relaxing massage by candlelight or anything else that’s supposed to do it. As long as Patroclus is there. Even when he’s too tired to talk much, too tired to laugh, too tired to do anything but eat the satsutangeromentines Patroclus peels for him and grunt a reply when he’s asked a question. It’s a wonder Patroclus loved him enough to marry him.

He glances at Patroclus, almost lifts his hand to place it over the other man’s, resting on the edge of the table over there -

“Yay!!! I don’t have to sleep alone tonight!” Antilochus yells, bursting through the tent flap and skipping over to them. Fucking skipping.

Achilles shoots Antilochus his most venomous glare, but the man’s brain is as blue-and-white as the pajamas he wears. Nothing touches him.

“Yay!” Patroclus echoes.

“We’ll play records all night and talk about our dreams!” Antilochus whoops, grabs Patroclus and jumps up and down.

A flicker of confusion flashes across Patroclus’ face, but quickly disappears.
“We’ll make sculptures out of seashells and write poems about anxiety!”

Achilles huffs and goes to bury himself in his oversized sleeping bag. He can pretend it’s a grave.


This is it.
Level 20.
There comes a time in an amateur cheesemaker’s life when he has to make a decision.
Level 20, the ultimate crossroads.

Paris wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead. He couldn’t sleep last night, and his dreams were filled with images. Slices of fontina, comté, and blue stilton whispering in the corners of his mind.

Choose me, choose me, choose me.

For Level 20 comes the time the amateur cheesemaker selects a speciality.

“I can’t choose!!!” he’d moaned, tossing and turning in his bed. He’d woken up to find that all his cheese posters had been replaced with fire safety precautions.
“Damn you, Polydorus!!!”

~~~

“Alright, compadres! Let’s practice lining up in our designated spots! Red for Greeks, Blue for Trojans! Please stick to your assigned colors! I repeat, no mixing!”

“He’s wearing red and blue!” someone complains, the crowd parting to reveal Antilochus.

“I’m Team Purple!” Antilochus protests.

“There’s no such thing!”

“Yes there is.”

“No there’s not.

“Take off those blue pajamas!”

“You can’t make me! I have bodily autonomy!”

The crowd start grabbing at Antilochus, who proves more stealthy and slippery than anyone gives him credit for.

Briseis and Diomedes share a packet of assorted chips, crunching dispassionately as they observe the commotion.

Agamemnon gets excited and joins in to whip unsuspecting people who stumble in his path.

“Looks like it’s gonna rain today,” Diomedes mutters.

“Mmhm.”

Crunch.

In the corner, Menelaus’ face is red as he tries to stop his brother’s antics. He has to get out his inhaler almost at once.

“STOP!!!” Polydorus screams. Deiphobus gets to work shoving people out of the way and sorting them in the correct lines.

“RED, BLUE, RED, BLUE! I WILL SHOVE ROTTEN CHEESE UP YOUR - Oh, hi!”

“Hi!” the polite onlooker from the previous day greets, hands in his pockets.

“Did you find the store?” Polydorus asks, curious.

“Oh, yes. Thanks.”

Polydorus nods and smiles. “So how are you liking it here on set?”

“I’ve never been an extra before, so I didn’t know what to expect.”

“Right …”

“But it’s quite eventful.”

“Oh, certainly!” Nervous giggle. “We try to keep things going, y’know.”

“Sure.”

“Polydorus, please!” Deiphobus begs, holding two struggling fire drill attendees by their shirt collars. “Don’t get distracted again!”

Polydorus turns around in surprise.
“Oh! I’m sorry, Dei.” He turns back to the extra. “Gotta get back to work -”

“Don’t let me keep you.”

“Ok! If you need anything, just ask for Polydorus.”

“Will do.” The extra tips an imaginary hat at Polydorus.

Polydorus laughs, then takes a deep breath in. “ALRIGHT YOU DAIRY-LOVING SCUM! BACK INTO YOUR LINES!”

“You scare me,” Deiphobus whispers.

~~~

As the first rain droplets descend, they stand forlornly in their lines.
Red blue, red blue, like the stripes of some faraway flag.

A flag for their shame, Menelaus thinks, stuffing his inhaler in his pocket. He’s finally gotten Agamemnon to calm down. The latter is sitting in a folding chair at the back of the line, sipping sleepytime tea, an episode of Real Housewives of Argos playing as background noise (Menelaus hates that show, but their tastes in television differ as vastly as it does with everything else in life).

He looks at the pebbly ground and contemplates sitting down. His stomach rumbles. He’s craving a grilled cheese sandwich, preferably smoked gouda with slices of sun-dried tomato. He’s miserable, even though fire drills remind him of staying at the college dormitory and he loves any memory that tells him he doesn’t have to go home, for the moment.

Polydorus runs the fire drill like a commander at a concentration camp. They slowly shuffle backwards and forwards, heads bowed. The sky blackens above them to match the mood.

It’s only when the Blue line moves up a little that he spots a familiar head in the distance, and for a second his heart skips a beat.
Then the head looks up and his heart sinks. Gods, they all look so alike.
Hector stares back at him, sticks out his tongue.

Next to the man, Andromache smacks his arm. Menelaus sticks his tongue out in reply, which makes Hector grin. Hector struggles to hold something up, which he recognizes as Dummy Hector’s limp body. Dummy Hector’s arm is lifted to wave at Menelaus.
He waves back, slightly befuddled, but what else is there to do?

Then Hector and Andromache move along and his heart starts beating a minute a mile. Or is it a kilometre a mile? Whatever, he’s not good at metric units.

“Menelaus!” A raised arm waving at him frantically, Paris’ excited face. Then Paris seems to realize people are looking and quickly schools his expression.

“Paris!” He yells back, and he can’t see because everybody is so tall.
He finds a rock to stand on.
“PARIS!”

“MENELAUS!”

“Hi!!!!!”

“Good lord,” someone complains, but he doesn’t give a shit.

“Menelaus, which should we choose?!!!” Paris screams, and oh gods, he forgot about Level 20. He forgot, and now they’re in a bind. Panic starts to take over.

“You choose, Paris!” he decides.

“Me?! But I was counting on you! You know this game! You know what’s good for us!”

“No, Paris! It’s your moment! You must choose!”

“But I can’t! I don’t know what we should do!”

“Look to yourself for the answer! You’ll find our path! Paris, you’re the leader of our destiny!”

“Menelaus, I can’t!” Paris moans.

He tries to think of the right thing to say. He doesn’t have anything, only one piece of knowledge that is absolute.
“I trust you.”

The words seem to strike Paris like lightning.
He looks at Menelaus over the crowd of rain-drenched shufflers, hope sparking in his eyes like the first streak of silver beyond the clouds.
“You … do?”

“I do,” Menelaus replies, with all the certainty he can muster.

A soft smile crosses Paris’ face.
“Ok.”


There’s a photograph of a bald, pot-bellied man next to Antilochus’ bedroll. It’s been carefully scotch-taped to the tent fabric so as not to ruin the middle. Achilles has been staring at it for nearly half an hour.

Firstly, he can’t fathom why Antilochus would keep a picture of an unattractive middle-aged tourist next to where he falls asleep at night. What’s even more confounding is that it’s a very good picture.

The colors crisp and clear in the right places, subtle and muted in others. The bald fat man is framed beautifully. In that moment he is a person, not a tourist. He has a life, a history. The photograph suggests all of that in that one clicking of the camera. Whoever took it is talented indeed.

Achilles can’t look away. There had been a time when he’d taken pictures like that. Filmed images like that. When had he stopped?

A rustling of the tent flap.

“Hey.”

He knows it’s Patroclus even without the greeting, from the way he parts the fabric and how his silent footfall makes its way towards him.

Achilles catches a glimpse of Patroclus’ sandals from the corner of his eye.
Yeah, he knows why and how he’d taken pictures like that. He’d been madly in love.

“Do you like Meat Loaf?” Patroclus asks, after a minute.

The question comes as a surprise. Sure, they used to drive around in his dad’s car which was filled with cassettes … A thought comes to mind.
“Yeah, I was just thinking - you know that song where he says he wants her, he needs her, but he’s never gonna love her? I always wondered about what he meant. And then I realized, when he says 2 out of 3 ain’t bad, he means that he wants her and needs her, but doesn’t love her. So loving her is the 1 out of 3 that’s missing from the equation.” Achilles laughs. “Right?”

“...”

“You know. Because, if it was 3 out of 3 ain’t bad, he would want her, need her, and love her …”

“What are you talking about?!” Patroclus demands, hands on his hips, face scrunched up in confusion.

“... Meat Loaf? That’s what you asked.”

“Yeah, I asked if you liked meatloaf! As in, do you want meatloaf for dinner!”

“...”

Patroclus sighs and goes off to find Antilochus’ cooking stuff. Only to find nothing, because of course Antilochus doesn’t cook. He finds an empty biscuit tin filled with expired coupons to various restaurants instead.

“Guess we’re eating Chinese tonight.”

“I like Chinese,” Achilles offers. He realizes he’s not an easy person to live with. After a while, it tends to rub off on the people around him.

Patroclus hums, not satisfied.

Slowly, Achilles gets up to sort through Antilochus’ biscuit tin with him.
“Like that time we had dim sum in the middle of the night when we tried to film a perfect sunset, missed it, and decided to film the sunrise instead.”
Their life has been filled with these things. These mistakes. Trial and error. Patroclus is the only constant in the rocking boat.

“Yeah?” Patroclus replies, a real smile this time. “You remember that?”

“How could I forget?”

“It was the worst dim sum I ever had,” Patroclus muses. “But the most spectacular sunrise there ever was. I could live to a hundred and never see a sunrise like that again.”

Achilles puts his arms around him and leans his chin on his shoulder - breathing in the scent of their chosen laundry detergent, a hint of mothballs (Patroclus is old-fashioned like that) and that other smell, that third smell he’s known ever since he was a kid running barefoot in their backwards neighborhood, dreaming about cameras and black-and-white movies on the big screen - and then his father’s old friend had moved back into their neighborhood, bringing his son with him, and he’d met that young boy in a coffee shop where the old men gathered smoking and playing cards and his father had said to him in a gruff voice “Go play with Patroclus” but he hadn’t wanted to, then of course those big brown eyes had met him across the smoke-filled room, a wide grin with missing front teeth.
And the rest is history, they say. The rest is history.

“Hey,” Achilles says, as Patroclus starts arranging Antilochus’ coupons in alphabetical order.
“It’s 3 out of 3, with you.”

And he can feel Patroclus’ smile against his cheek.

Notes:

Music that inspired/set the mood for chapters/scenes will be linked in the end notes!

Briseis listens to ABBA to block out Diomedes' rambling

Antilochus & The Cameraman

Pat & Achilles eating satsutangeromentines

Bonus song reference

Chapter 7: Week 12

Chapter Text

Rain comes down like a heartbroken god. Little figures line the sodden wood of the jetty, hung heads and anxious feet awaiting their boats. All aboard the mothership, Antilochus thinks, rooting around in his pocket for a candy cigarette.

He turns around to grin at the camera, but finds none there. His eyes search the expanse of the shoreline, unwilling to settle until he locates the familiar figure of Bartholomew the tourist. Funny thing is, he never sees Bartholomew without the cameraman around. Like a mythical figure, appearing only on sunlight days.

Happy People.

Antilochus’ fingers grip the stick in his pocket and breaks off a piece. He always carries two, just so he can offer one to the next person and watch their face as they realize it’s just sugar. The cameraman had had no reaction, simply taking the piece he was offered and sticking it out of the side of his mouth, 40s-gangster-style. They’d caught each other’s eye the second after. And an embarrassed laugh, the second following that. That had been the first time, Antilochus recalls.

Now all the cameraman sees is the lens and all Antilochus can think about is what’s behind the lens. He can’t speak without addressing something more than the viewer. He can’t think. He can’t sleep. He goes to bed at night with his finger tracing the outline of Bartholomew the tourist, wanting so badly to be one of those Happy People, because maybe those kinds of people don’t need to be seen on a big screen to feel seen.

Gods, he thinks.

As the rain veers into storm territory, he trudges back to their encampment. There’s a reason he wanted to participate in Achilles and Patroclus’ mad quest for documentary glory. The sight of those tents in the murky distance says it all. It’s a sense of community. That they all sleep under the same stars. That he’s found people who speak his language, or at least understand it.

He stands outside his tent with his hands in his pockets for a minute. Wet sand pools around his toes like an oceanic porridge. He wiggles his toes and silently apologizes if it bothers any hermit crabs who’ve gone to shelter from the rain.

And then he realizes, he’s fucking lonely.

Gods, he’s no good at being lonely.

But all those bright summer days with the man and the camera have made him more comfortable with himself in a way he hasn’t been before. Everything that’s captured on film, every glance, every word. There are so many times when he’s the only one on camera, but all those times, he was never really alone.

He takes out the two candy cigarettes and looks at them in his hand. For once, it’s not someone’s novel reaction he’s craving for. It’s something else. Something he’s seen time and time again, the white of the candy slipping between teeth, the flash of eyes in a dance they both know. Maybe Happy People are happy because of exactly that.


“The thing I hate most is how they just block the entire aisle with their shopping cart and don’t realize you’re right behind them. I mean, a supermarket crowded with people, and you don’t think there’s anyone behind you? Seriously, Doris?”

“Common sense,” Deiphobus agrees.

“Then you say ‘excuse me’ and they turn around and glare at you like you killed the favorite of their nine cats -”

“When they’re the ones inconveniencing everyone else!!” Deiphobus exclaims, leaping up in his chair.

“So annoying. And they have to chat up the cashier and ask about her love life, when she’s gonna get a real job, and talk about the housing crisis while there are fifty fucking people in line behind them!”

“Do you understand this? Because I don’t!” Deiphobus agrees.

Diomedes sighs and empties his coffee cup. His wristwatch reads three o’ clock, even though he doesn’t feel like checking it.
“Anyway, it was nice chatting. I think maybe someone should tell Polydorus that people still think there’s a fire drill going on outside.”

Deiphobus turns to scan the lines of Blue and Red shirts trudging forlornly under the murky sky.
“... Yeah, someone should.” He catches Diomedes’ gaze. “Or. We could … just let them suffer.”

Diomedes opens his mouth to reply, but then -
Well, nobody would need to know, would they? Polydorus has gone shopping. Achilles and Patroclus are busy setting up for another scene. Antilochus - gods know what that little banana in pajamas gets up to on his own time? And Briseis is on a call with her mother (he’ll have to remember not to ask stupid questions later).

He’d just been taking a break at his usual java spot when the barista had gotten his name mixed up with someone else’s (Deiphobus, Diomedes. He can’t see how that could possibly happen). It turns out the world has no shortage of like-minded, latte-drinking individuals who don’t know what the hell they’re in school for.

The fire drill could technically go on forever. At least, until someone catches them.
Tempting. Very tempting.

He gives it a second thought.
“Nah,” he and Deiphobus chorus.
The legs of Deiphobus’ chair scrape against the floor. Funny, he doubts either of them have ever sat down in here before, despite the abundance of secondhand furniture and potted plants, free dog biscuits and sidewalk chalkboards. Diomedes loves coffee shops. They seem to scream “second home” no matter which town, which city, which country.

He doesn’t know how he never thought to stay for a little while. Until Deiphobus had literally clapped a hand on his shoulder and gone “Stay for a little while.” So he had. And three hours later, they had talked about everything from his passion for pulled pork to how it annoys him when old ladies at the grocery store display no spatial awareness.

“I’ll send you a picture when I’m done sanding down the new cupboard,” he tells Deiphobus, after they’ve exchanged email addresses.

“Sure thing. Same spot next week?”

Diomedes stalls.
No one has ever bothered to make plans with him before.
And even if they did, it’s not like they would have seen it through. He eyes Deiphobus, who has the kind of devil-may-care, been-there-seen-everything face required in someone who passes out free t-shirts to the general public. It’s not a face he’s sure he can trust. But … well, who would he trust?
Damn it, he’ll bite.

“Ok. Same spot.”

“Cool. Good luck with the cupboard, then.”

He’ll need it.


There’s a pivotal scene, a dream within a dream Achilles has been playing in his head for weeks - like the one he wakes up from only to wake up again and sit up in disappointment and surprise that the real dream was the one that held all the others.

He’s been dismal since the beginning of the shoot thinking of all the scenes disrupted by the weather. But Helios smiles down upon them one afternoon and the clouds part from their week-long depression rally.

It’s the most beautiful kind of sunlight, the one the camera lens seems to have no trouble capturing as ethereal as it appears in person - washing the walls in pearly glow, stretching the shadows with a wakeful tenderness.

It’s one of those days that begs to be put to film, that begs to be lived over and over again from projector to screen. Film is eternal, Achilles chants to himself, even though he knows it really isn’t. But almost. It’s almost eternal. And that has to be enough.

Of course, they waste the day on trivial matters.

As they have every single day of this fucking shoot.

But as he looks out over the set from his director’s chair and examines each piece of the puzzle with his bird’s eye view, he recognizes that not the whole thing is a total sham. There are parts that work.

And as the scene goes on, more parts continue to work. The makeup crew (Antilochus and the medics, now that they’ve had to let go of the professionals) manage not to fuck up another time. The cameraman finds the perfect frame. And there’s a moment in time when the sound of waves crashing against the rocks resembles the roar of the army. It’s surreal.

“Take thirteen!” he yells.

~~~

“You know, it says here that Menelaus is ‘good at the war cry’. How so, when he has asthma?” someone voices.

“My mistake,” Patroclus sighs, and crosses it out to be edited later.

“It says here that I’m ‘fake but beautiful’,” Paris complains, jabbing a finger at the page.

“No tampering!” Patroclus yells, shielding his precious script from grabbing hands.

“Well Paris, you are the acrylic fingernail of the Greek world,” Briseis proclaims, hands on her hips.

“You’re the false eyelashes of Trojan society,” Hector chimes in.

“Pity no one informed me it’s Hate on Paris Day today,” Paris sighs, rolling his eyes.

“You’re the spray-on suntan of the Aegean sea,” Diomedes snorts.

“You’re a perm!”

“You’re the mole Marilyn Monroe’s makeup artist drew on her face!”

“You’re the balled up toilet paper stuffed in a bra!”

“You’re a -”

Out of nowhere, Antilochus jumps in. “Those things may all be fake. But they sure as hell are fabulous!”

A collective groan, while Paris just seems grateful the attention isn’t on him anymore.

“Besides, don’t pretend like no one here has ever gotten a perm. Right Diomedes?!”

“It was one time!” Diomedes protests.
“Ok, fine. It was one time, plus a hot oil treatment.”

“... I spray on a tan sometimes because I don’t want to get sunburned,” one of the extras offers, after a moment.

“And sometimes I draw a fake mole on Dummy Hector’s face because …” Hector trails off, turns red, and moves his face away. “No reason.”

“Hah!” Antilochus exclaims, triumphant. “We act like we’re so superior, calling Paris a fake! That’s like saying dreams aren’t awesome because they aren’t real!”

The small group of onlookers slowly agree. Others hum in discontent.

“Wait, dreams?” Diomedes says. “What are we talking about now?”

“I don’t remember what I was talking about but I know I believe in what I’m saying!” Antilochus replies vehemently.

“Huh?”

“But Antilochus, why are you even here?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t you be helping Helen and Priam with their makeup?” Paris asks.

“Why would Helen need makeup? Doesn’t she have a ship with a thousand faces?” Antilochus demands.

“That’s not …”

“Never mind …”

Diomedes and Paris exchange a look of reluctant solidarity.

“Oh shit!” Antilochus straightens. “I was doing makeup! Shit, shit, shit!” He runs off.


They’ve opened a packet of buns between them. They sit on the hood of the car with the radio turned on full volume.
In another life, Diomedes would have been a hitchhiking traveler. Or maybe not, because he likes driving too much. Even if it’s Briseis’ car.

“Why’d you pick such a high place?” he questions, trying not to shudder at the valley below them. It’s taken a few hours to get past the rain - they’re merely racing it at this point.

“It’s away from the ocean,” Briseis replies.

“What’s so bad about the ocean?”

“Well, for one, you can’t drown.”

“True.”

“You can’t get attacked by sharks.”

“Also true.”

“And I don’t know, I think the sea breeze makes people a little crazy. I thought it’d be nice to get away for a little while, a mini-vacation amidst the madness. What else would you do on our one sunny day?”

“If you were Achilles, the answer is work.”

Briseis makes a face. Her phone rings, she pointedly ignores it.
They wait until it dies down, and sit in comfortable silence.

Then Diomedes’ phone rings in his back pocket. He takes it out to check the screen.
“It’s your mother,” he states.
Briseis lets out a groan.

~~~

“This is - quite the climb for a picnic -” Menelaus wheezes, basket in hand.
“Why’d they pick such a high place?!”

“Dei, a deer! Get the camera!” Polydorus crows.
The landscape around them is postcard-perfect. Birds sing from the trees. Flowers sway, their colorful heads facing the sun. Grown men fumble in their backpacks, trip over themselves and go rolling down the hill.

“I kinda wish I hadn’t invited you guys,” Paris mumbles.

“But what better way for brothers to bond than to appreciate nature?” Polydorus challenges.

“I don’t like nature.”

In the distance, Deiphobus appears to have found his camera and snaps a picture of the deer, seconds before an arrow strikes it down.

“What the fuck?! Agamemnon!”

“The word is venison,” Agamemnon corrects, striding over and collecting his prey.

“We don’t have hunting permits here!”

“Who’s asking?” Agamemnon demands.

“Oooh, I love venison! Let’s make some kabobs later!” Polydorus suggests, rushing over to join them.

“I’m not making kabobs with crazy!” Deiphobus insists.

Menelaus catches Paris’ eye. I kinda wish we were alone, he mouths.
Paris can only nod regretfully.

Away from the beach, it’s like they have suddenly become the tourists, and it’s torturous.

“This is bringing back horrible memories of family vacations,” Paris chuckles. “When all I wanted to do was stay home and play video games.”

He waits for Menelaus to answer, but the other doubles over, out of breath.

“... Ah, shit. You got your inhaler, man?”

Menelaus nods, plastic device already in hand.
“Just - WHEEZE - go on - WHEEZE - without me.”

He can hear the brothers’ conversation in the distance above them, and doesn’t know how much time has passed -

When a foot nudges his own, and Paris settles down next to him on the rocky path.
“Of course I’m not going without you.”

“But -” If he doesn’t get his breathing under control, he may very well be incapacitated for hours.
“I don’t want to be a bother.”

Paris snorts.

“I’m always a bother to other people,” Menelaus explains.

“Who said that?” Paris demands. “Because I will rip their face off. Capital rho.”

Menelaus laughs, which doesn’t help.

“Hey,” Paris says. “Once you get your breathing under control, you wanna just jet?”

“You mean … leave without telling them?”

Paris shrugs.

“But what about Briseis and Diomedes? They’re waiting for us at the top and we’re all going for karaoke later.”

“I hate karaoke,” Paris admits. “It makes me feel empty inside.”

On second thought - “And they call me the attention whore. When everyone knows it’s Polydorus who’s a slut for the microphone.”

Menelaus looks at the ground. “Yeah … me too.”

“You too, are a slut for the microphone?”

“No!” Menelaus objects, breaking into laughter.

They can’t stop laughing.

“Hey, nothing wrong with that!” Paris points out.

When the laughter dies down Paris glances at him, opens his mouth, closes it again.
“But, I don’t know. Maybe I’d like it if it were just us.”

Menelaus doesn’t know what to say to that. A second later, he decides. “Screw it. Let’s get the hell outta here.”


“Take fourteen!”

They wander into a room, the light catching the cracks in the marble as thin as spiderwebs. Over the length of the floor gleams the color of royalty, as Helen weaves at the loom.

It’s perhaps Achilles’ favorite of the bunch. The whole image attends to the eye like a fever dream, her silhouette against the purple fabric, the way she rises up and walks through the corridors to watch from the wall of Troy.

Of course, they’ve already wrapped up filming Paris and Menelaus’ duel, so all Helen has to look at is ... well, nothing.

Against the afternoon sun, skin weathered and grey, sits the old king.
“Come sit by me, child.”

Achilles can sense Patroclus mouthing the words, hands clasped together in the hopes everything will run smoothly. He fights the urge to roll his eyes.

Helen takes a seat, casting her eyes out over the battlement.

Ah, beautiful.

They’re so close. So. Close.

“I - what the !” Helen exclaims, standing up immediately.

Priam claps a hand over his mouth and snorts, the rest of the crew erupts into laughter.

“Cut!” Achilles whips his head around, daring anyone to continue laughing. “What is it now? Can’t we get on with the scene?”

“But look!” Helen points.

It better not be. It better not. He will purchase a guillotine. He will hunt down the emergency credit card Patroclus keeps frozen in an ice block and purchase a guillotine.

“Oh no,” Patroclus murmurs, shaking his head as he goes to look.

Achilles follows him. On the empty battlefield, where Menelaus and Paris are supposed to have their duel, someone has placed two blow-up sex dolls, kept upright with a good amount of duct tape.

“Where is Antilochus?” Achilles fumes.

~~~

One ill-timed prank turns into a running joke, and Achilles keeps himself awake at night dreaming of all the ways he would like to torture the responsible party.

Every fucking take becomes a failure as Helen is about to say her lines, only to be caught off guard by whatever rubbish they’ve placed out there on the battlefield to shock her (a hundred cardboard cutouts of Menelaus arranged in rows to form an army of Menelauses is Patroclus’ favorite).

By the third day of filming the scene, he’s exhausted.

“So, which one’s your guy?” Priam asks.

Helen examines the field, and points.

“Whaaat. You got a guy like that at home and you wanted my son? Look at that head of hair!”

“Well, why don’t you marry him then?” Helen huffs.

Priam seems to think about it, his white brows crinkling into a frown. “Nah. He’s too old for me.”

Helen leans back and laughs. “What!”

“I like my men like tourists on cruise ships like their wine.”

“Which is?”

“Young and cheap.”

Helen appears baffled as Priam cackles at his own joke.

“Please. Stay. In. Character,” Achilles all but moans, slumping in his seat while Patroclus presses a cold pack to his head and fans him with a folded newspaper.

“Anyway, brave of him to go fighting in the war with Horace,” Priam continues.

“Hector,” Hector corrects.

“Right. Brave of him to fight against Harold, who’s such a fearsome warrior.”

“It’s HECTOR.”

“Whatever. I got too many damn kids.”

Helen shoots Hector an apologetic look, but he begins to storm off. Half a second later, he pauses mid-stormoff, turns round to collect Dummy Hector, then resumes storming off.

“Well, I hope you and Patricia are happy,” Priam goes on, oblivious.

“PARIS.” Patroclus corrects him, since the man isn’t around to defend himself.

“... We’re … not?” Helen squeaks, shooting a confused look at Achilles. “Are … we supposed to be? Happy?”

“No,” Achilles replies.

“No,” Helen repeats, looking slightly relieved she’s not the one who messed up.

“And of course we will be getting you and Pamela gifts from the wedding registry. We would never dare go off the registry,” Priam continues to ramble, patting Helen’s hand consolingly.

“DOES ANYBODY EVER READ THE FUCKING SCRIPT?!!” Achilles bursts out.

All hell breaks loose.

~~~

It’s nearing sunset, and the air is heavy with moisture. The cameraman can feel it on his skin, on his sweat-slicked forehead. His palms struggle not to slip over the equipment, as he captures what can only be called pandemonium. He now understands what Achilles is always talking about, the beauty of a single shot.

Their expressions; wide eyed, calamitous.

Film is like freedom, able to take life’s disasters, both natural and man-made. And condense it the way anybody can understand.
It’s the first time he feels like he loves being a cameraman, even when he huddles over, scrambling for the right frame, avoiding being trampled by screaming extras.

It’s not the first time Achilles has snapped, and it’s not the last.

But he’s the cameraman. He’s got to catch it all.

It’s stone cold irony that Achilles has dreamed of capturing the war on screen, only to have these moments of pure chaos play out in a way far from his own design, off-script, fueled only by instances of error.

They can take those accidents and make it into art. He’s sure of it. He crouches down, stomach to the floor, and grips the camera for dear life like a wildlife photographer in the Saharan desert.

“Where have you been?!”

His heart skips a beat, hearing that voice.

A minute later, a face drops into view, and of course the camera loves him, of course. The camera would never forget that face.

He shifts his weight, fumbles, tries not to turn pink.
“I …”

“I thought you’d bailed on us just like all the others!” Antilochus says, seemingly oblivious (or uncaring) to the scene behind him.

“I had to turn in a paper,” the cameraman explains.

“Oh. I hope you didn’t type it in Helvetica. Patroclus says it’s the font of the damned.”

He laughs. Fuck. He’s missed -
Filming. Yeah, nothing else, just filming.

“Here,” Antilochus says, and tucks a candy cigarette behind the cameraman’s ear.

And for a moment it’s nothing but the two of them, blinking at each other, the rest of the world screaming in the background.

“You wouldn’t believe what’s been going on here. For one, I no longer suck at putting makeup on people’s faces. Though Achilles insists that if I’m to continue doing it, the Greek army shouldn’t look like Madonna in the 80s.”

He’s smiling so hard his face hurts.

Antilochus. Oh, Antilochus.

“Well, cameraman? Shall I narrate the absolute shitstorm that’s going on here?”

“There’s nothing I’d like more.”

Chapter 8: Week 13

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

There’s a distant memory Antilochus clings to. Riding in the back of a taxi on the way from the airport late at night, when it’s so dark even with the occasional street light, flashing over his face at every interval. He knows the scent of car upholstery, drenched through with old cigarette-old takeout-old everything. He recognizes the outline of the taxi driver’s cap, bushy eyebrows in the rearview mirror. Most of all he remembers the sound of the radio playing as though it were right next to his ear, yet from another life, another place.

Thing is, it’s a memory that hasn’t happened. He keeps wondering when it was; five, six, seven years old?
One of his dad’s work trips?
He doesn’t know. All he can come up with is that it must be a dream. But he doesn’t think of it when he sleeps, he thinks of it when he’s awake. When he’s lying on his bed the whole night long, his eyes accustomed to the dark.
It’s one of these slumberless nights that he thinks, a-ha!

“Psst, Patroclus!”

The other man bolts upright. “Fire!!”

“No no, Patroclus, there’s no fire.”

Patroclus rubs sleep from his eyes and squints at Antilochus’ face. The blankets are all bunched around his head like a sleepy Mother Teresa.
“Oh. Are you alright?”

What was it he’d been meaning to say?
“Did you pick me up from the airport that time I wanted to come back?”

“... Um, no?”

“...Oh.” Well. There goes that idea.

Patroclus knows him better than he realizes. “Is it the airport dream again?”

He sighs loudly. “Only it’s not a dream. I know it. It just hasn’t happened yet!”

“You a psychic now, Antilochus?” Patroclus teases him. “I thought that was Chryses’ job.”

“Oooh! Did you write a new character into the script?”

It’s Patroclus’ turn to sigh. “I have a husband -”

“I’ve noticed.”

“- who won’t shut up about how we don’t have the budget for these kinds of things-”

“What a downer!” Antilochus agrees.

“And I feel like tearing my hair out over every argument about what gets to go in the documentary, especially since we should have discussed this before we even started shooting, but the whole thing’s a sinking ship -”

“Like the Titanic, huh?”

“Like the Titanic.”

“Mmhm, and you’re Rose, and he’s Rose’s snobby rich boy fiancé, and you feel trapped in this loveless marriage and feel you need freedom to express who you are.”

“Well, not quite …”

“He makes you feel stupid when all you want to do is buy art and have sex in antique cars! Never mind, Patroclus. Nobody likes him anyway. We’ll find you a new man!”

“Antilochus.” A grumpy, all too familiar voice. An all too familiar face rising out of the sheets to glare at him next to Patroclus, who just shrugs his shoulders.

Yup, he is dead.

“Do you mind, Achilles? Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something here?”

“Antilochus, get out of our bed.”


Palm trees framed in a French window.
A turquoise swimming pool.
These are the things that show other people they have money.
It’s like a mockery of that song from the movie he and Agamemnon used to watch about the nun with the Austrian kids and a puppet show about goats …
These are a few of my favorite things
These are a few of rich people’s things. He smirks. At least that’s what their parents thought.

But when Menelaus was a kid, these are the things that provided another place to be.
Outside the glass he could imagine endless jungle, cutting through miles and miles of brush and fighting fierce Bengal tigers.
In the rectangle pool he could imagine a shoreline of sand, leap off the diving board into an underwater wonderland where he would drift for eternity. Never have to worry about running out of air. And watch the bubbles forming from his nose.

He thinks about the bubbles even on the bus, where the fading landscape shows nothing but dry desert and shrubbery. Wind leaves a trail of sand behind them, so dry and cracked, like the well-worn seats on the bus, like the skin of his heel when he lifts it to scratch his other leg.

He leaves the window half open, just like he leaves everything. Promises, half-kept. Ambitions, half-fulfilled. Even his memories are hazy.

“Next stop: Argos!” the bus driver announces, to the delight of the tired passengers. There’s a resounding cheer.
When he lifts his head a little he can see Patroclus scribbling away on a yellow legal pad. Achilles, watching the scenery with his filmmaker’s eye.

The ride ahead is bumpy; as the bus jerks, Paris’ sleeping head falls on his shoulder, and stays there. He can’t help smiling - at the half-read copy of Fromage: The Amateur’s Guide to French Cheese still clutched in Paris’ hand - at the way his eyes flutter half-open and closed with every jolt of the vehicle. He looks almost innocent in sleep, but even that’s the wrong word. Boyish, maybe. Perhaps Menelaus himself isn’t the only one who leaves things half done. But you know what they say, two halves make a whole. Even if you fail at fractions in school, it’s a fact.

~~~

“They used to film a dating show at this place,” Achilles comments, flipping through the brochure. “Huh.” He looks unimpressed, but it’s not like they have much choice. The bus has pulled up outside a row of rundown shops in what seems to make up a little town, the wonky town sign missing the last two letters so it just spells “ARG”.

That’s what the whole bus seems to feel. Arg.
Behind a copse of trees, they can barely make out the dingy neon lights of The Palace, Argos’ only vacation resort and home to the Atreidae. And it doesn’t look cursed at all. Nope, not at all.

The cameraman feels Antilochus gripping his arm.
“A haunted house?” Antilochus whispers. “Maybe we can convince Achilles to spend a night!”

They’ve been scouting locations to film several brief scenes at Agamemnon’s palace - what better place than the original? They file out of the bus, grabbing their luggage and equipment from the storage compartments.

The cameraman looks down at his knee and spots three mosquito bites, side by side. This will be fun indeed.

The bus driver abandons them as soon as they’re out of the bus, waving cheerfully, while they’re left to figure out exactly what they’ve gotten themselves into.

“Welcome to The Palace!” Agamemnon exclaims, and the cameraman thinks it’s rather nice of him, if he didn’t look that way and smirk that way just as everyone makes their way into the building …

“Checking in?” asks the lady at the counter.

Well, shit.


Ring-A-Ling!

Tinny jukebox music filters through the air, a toy monkey in the corner crashes its cymbals together.

“This is some Phantom of the Opera type shit,” Diomedes whispers, clinging to Briseis like a five-year-old in a clown car.

“Nope, it’s just my house,” Menelaus sighs.

They’ve meandered past the receptionist’s desk and are waiting to be given their room keys in the lobby. It’s positively biblical, like the inside of a whale.

Red carpet, red wallpaper, red rubies gleaming on the dusty chandelier.
“It’s like someone vomited blood and called it décor,” Achilles whispers.

A second later, the floor caves in.

Antilochus screams.

Maniacal laughter fills the air, and the lights begin to flicker neon green and crazed pink, casting everyone’s face in shadow. The cameraman holds his camera to his chest, uncertain.

“I want to go home!!” Diomedes shrieks.

The laughter continues a little too long.

Music starts and stops, one song blending into another, until it’s clear the jukebox is broken.
“Tchaikovsky. Nutcracker Suite,” Briseis names, listening for each song.
“And now it’s Sonny and Cher.”

“Time After Time!” Patroclus joins in the guessing game. He claps his hands together.
“Ooh, this is fun!”

“I think you mean, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” Achilles quips.

Antilochus laughs nervously. “Yes, this is so fun. Isn’t it fun, girls? What is everyone talking about again?!”
The cameraman reaches over and pats his shoulder to reassure him. He lifts his arm higher and pats Antilochus’ head. Nothing seems to work.
Group spirit is at an all time low.

Hesitating, he opens his mouth and starts to sing a line or two.
“I come home in the morning light
My mother says when you gonna live your life right?” His voice is shaky, but it distracts Antilochus, at least.

The other man coughs and straightens his pajamas.
“Oh momma dear we’re not the fortunate ones
And girls, they wanna have fun”

“Oh girls, they wanna have fun,” the crew choruses.

The shift in mood seems to calm everyone down. Antilochus shoots the cameraman a grateful smile, and underneath the garish disco lighting he feels a warm surge in the middle of his stomach like the embers of a cigarette.

Any hope of tranquility fades away as Death itself enters the room.

Diomedes, upon seeing the foul apparition, faints in the corner.

~~~

“Nah, it’s just my dad,” Menelaus assures them.

The group watches warily, no one really knowing what to say at the old (middle-aged, upon closer inspection) man moonwalking by himself along the wall. He’s covered in white paint, his shoes leaving behind messy footprints everywhere he drags his feet.

“Is - is he okay?” Antilochus whispers. The cameraman zooms in, wonders why, and zooms out again.

Menelaus sighs and reaches over to tap the painted man on the shoulder. “Hi, dad.”

Atreus blinks and stares at Menelaus for a second. “Oh!! Son, you’re back! Good, good, good!” He takes Menelaus’ hand, seemingly unaware of the white paint smearing everywhere, which triggers Menelaus’ asthma and makes him reach for his inhaler. The inhaler drops out of his hand. Agamemnon picks it up and hands it to him, only to slip in the white paint and tumble face-first (Paris snorts).

In their haste, they wade through endless amounts of paint, each one passing along the inhaler, trying to reach Menelaus to no avail.
“Dad!!! What were you thinking!!” Agamemnon screams.

“I was trying to paint the roof!” Atreus replies cheerfully.

“In painting the roof how did you paint yourself instead?” Menelaus asks in curiosity.

“It seems I missed the roof!”

~~~

“He had four bottles of vodka,” Agamemnon explains, when they’ve (rather unsuccessfully) gotten the paint off and have settled down in the lobby again, the only clear room in the hotel.

“Vodka?” Menelaus questions dubiously. Everyone knows their dad is a scotch man.

“Peach-flavored.”

“Ah.”

Menelaus swings his legs on his wingback chair and looks around at the peeling wallpaper and stained ceiling.
“Well. Home sweet home.”

“Cheers to that,” Agamemnon agrees, lifting an imaginary martini.

They seem to have forgotten everyone else until Achilles clears his throat. Agamemnon looks surprised to see the rest of the crew in the lobby.
“Come on, muchachos! Back to work!”

“Actually, maybe we should get them their room keys. Where’s the receptionist?” Menelaus asks.

Agamemnon goes to check, and comes back a little later.
“I think she’s dead.”

“Huh?!”

~~~

A siren wails in the distance.
It seems they’ve run out of sunny days, even across the desert, as thunder cracks the earth like a horsewhip and they observe the ambulance rushing off, drenched to the bone.

“Why does the receptionist have to die every time we come home?” Menelaus mumbles. Agamemnon, having no reply, throws an arm around him. Against the blackening landscape, lightning accenting the sky, their silhouettes resemble the two little boys they must have been once.

~~~

It’s nearly midnight when they get a room. Achilles unlocks the door, curses when the key jams in the lock.
The interior of the room is covered in a sheet of dust so thick he’s worried it will settle in their lungs. He makes Patroclus wrap a scarf around his mouth and nose while he opens the windows and shakes the sheets into the rain-glossed air outside.

“Hu-ee, d-oo-rwwy-want to-shh-a-heen-inhere?” Patroclus says, through his scarf.

“Pardon?” Achilles asks.

Patroclus removes the scarf. “Honey, do you really want to shoot a scene in this place? It’s …” He scans their surroundings, doubtful.
The room, which hasn’t had a design update since - perhaps the art nouveau era - is crammed with furniture in every corner. They can barely fit their luggage through the door. It smells like melancholy.

Achilles seems at a loss, because he doesn’t reply immediately.
“... I don’t know.”

Uh-oh. It’s a sign of the apocalypse when Achilles doesn’t know.

“... Ok.” Patroclus presses his lips together. Best to give the man some time. “I’ll go check the bathroom. Let’s hope it’s not filled with spiders or something.” He laughs nervously, because if it is, he’s not showering, or sleeping. He’s just not.


In the evenings Atreus holds a party in the “guest lounge”, a dismal nook with a bar and a few moth-eaten chairs around a near-collapsing stage. He fancies himself host of the evening, entertaining himself with jokes, drink in hand.

Menelaus and Agamemnon watch forlornly from the seats.

“How long do we have to stay?” Diomedes whispers.

Briseis kicks his foot. “Don’t be rude.”

“But doesn’t he realize the microphone isn’t even on?”

Briseis shushes him.

At least the bar is functional, Diomedes thinks, and gets up to make himself a drink. So far he’s managed to entertain himself by inventing new cocktail recipes.

He hears footsteps approaching.
“Hey, Menelaus. Fancy a taste of Daddy Issues?”

Menelaus gives him a look, then eyes the glass in his hand, gleaming blue-green, teeny umbrella giving off a liveliness that otherwise isn’t there.
“What’s in it?”

“It’s just apple juice and blue food dye. I’m not a very good bartender,” Diomedes admits.

Menelaus smiles at this and takes a sip.
Then spits it out.
“Oof!”

“Told you.”

Someone has turned the microphone on for Atreus, and his voice fills the room in an amused cadence.
“You know, when my wife and I had just bought this place I noticed she was filling the rooms with all manner of knick knacks. Wooden spoons, yogurt cups. This went on for twenty something years … the first boy was born, and then the second. She wouldn’t ever throw anything away, not even the rubber nipples on their baby bottles.”

“Goooooods!” Menelaus groans, and looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“It turned out she couldn’t. Throw anything away. She felt there would come a time when we would need it. I said to her, honey, you gotta let go of this junk! But she couldn’t.”

“Please, not this again,” Menelaus mutters, and puts his hands over his ears.

Diomedes starts to make a joke, but stops when he notices the genuine anguish on the young asthmatic’s face. “Hey, it’s ok.”

“It’s fucking embarrassing. He’ll go on for hours.”

“Let him.”

Diomedes listens to Atreus ramble on, in the style of a stand-up comic who never got his big break. He gets an idea.

What are you doing?!” Briseis hisses at him when she notices he’s climbing onto the stage, planning to hijack Atreus’ performance. He waves her off.

“- and there’s nothing worse than being left by a hoarder. Because you’re the only one they could let go -”

“Hey, talk about a bad relationship!” Diomedes interrupts, grabbing the mic so violently that Atreus nearly falls off the stage. The spotlight is blinding.

The room is silent as random members of the crew (and surprisingly, actual hotel guests) blink up at him in a stupor.
“We’ve all had bad dates, maybe even married the wrong people! And talk about a bad marriage …”

“Oh gods,” Briseis murmurs, covering her face in secondhand embarrassment. And Diomedes hasn’t even gotten to the punchline yet, which she knows he won’t, because he’s not a comedian.

Oh gods, Diomedes thinks, sweating profusely, brain scrambling for a way to continue.

“Oh gods,” Menelaus says to himself, sipping on more bad apple juice, sitting up in his chair to watch Diomedes humiliate himself in front of strangers.

“I mean, my wife hated being married to me! She hung herself!” Diomedes blurts out.

Briseis hides behind a pillow.

He waits for a laugh. The audience seems confused, at most.

Then suddenly -

Out of nowhere …

“HAH!” Agamemnon screeches, and slaps a hand on the table next to him. He lets out a great big belly laugh, face so pink it resembles raw meat.
People sitting near him start to join in, nervously.
Agamemnon leans over and grabs Briseis’ hand, wheezing so hard she’s afraid he’ll have a seizure.
“No one ever told me Diomedes was so talented! HAH!”

“R-right … ha ha. Ha,” Briseis responds, weakly.

Diomedes feels like he’s about to faint, not for the first time in this godsforsaken no man’s land. Behind him, Atreus is sprawled out on the stage, happily unconscious.

When he’s done, he stumbles down the stairs and collapses in a heap.

“That was the nicest thing you’ve ever done,” Briseis says, and kisses him on the cheek.

And the craziest.
But hey, maybe he is kind of a softie at heart. Not that he’ll ever admit it. He just couldn’t stand seeing Menelaus looking like that. The kid has asthma, isn’t his life hard enough?


The storm rages on and Achilles is dreaming of diamonds and pearls.
Maybe it’s just because someone is singing about diamonds and pearls downstairs. Could be a ghost. He doesn’t care.
With Patroclus pressed up like a hot water bottle against his side, he wonders what he’s doing. Why is he so obsessed with this documentary? It’s just an old story. People have told it and moved on.
Why can’t he?

The door creaks open, and he swears to god(s), if this place is haunted -

“Patroclus? Achilles? Can I sleep with you?”

Patroclus stirs, but before either of them can answer, Antilochus jumps on the bed and wiggles in between them.

“Hmph,” Achilles grumbles, and turns over.

Behind Antilochus, the cameraman sidles through the door, looking abashed.

“Bad dream?” Patroclus offers.

“... Got locked out of my room.”

“Ah.”

They settle down while the shutters bang against the windowsill in the height of the storm.

“Goodnight, Patroclus!”
“Goodnight, Antilochus.”

“Goodnight, Achilles!”
“Shh!”

“May you dream of sweetbreads!” Antilochus lowers his voice to a whisper.

“Olive bread,” Patroclus says.

“What?”

Olivebread.”

Oh. Me too.”

“Hehe.”

“Good one!”

“SHH.” Achilles, enraged, pulls the blanket over his head to shut them both out.


There’s an empty dance hall where The Palace serves a midnight buffet.
Spring rolls, bacon wrapped shrimp. Cobb salad and little cream cheese tarts arranged on a silver tray. The food of the gods.
There’s nothing sadder than the sound of fruit punch sloshing in a plastic bowl, not a cup, but a bowl, set down on a dusty faux leather tablecloth - and old music blaring from desiccated speakers into the emptiness.

Menelaus sits in the dance hall and thinks he sees his mother’s hallucinations, the odd couple jiving to the rhythm in a series of ghostly dance moves, people lining up at the buffet, lively chatter, laughter. He laughs to himself instead.
His mother’s a hoarder and his father’s a drunk and he’s stuck here in The Palace, place he grew up in, palm trees in French windows and a turquoise swimming pool. He’s had countless adventures here, all the while pretending he was somewhere else. Someone else. Anywhere else and anyone else.

The floorboards creak and he thinks the building is collapsing around them.

But it’s just a figure in the shadows, and he hopes it’s a ghost, one of those ghostly dancers who gets tired of dancing and might just say to him “Cut the bullshit, boy. It’s time for a break.” And then they’d share a cigarette and in a haze of smoke he can pretend he’s somewhere else again. He’s got his mother’s penchant for pretending. Only he’s not like her, trapped in a prison he built for himself. He’s got to go somewhere else. Even if he’s not quite sure where that place is.

Someone clears their throat, and it’s not a ghost-dancer, it’s Paris.

“Punch?” Menelaus offers, dangling the plastic bowl and watching the red liquid slosh this way and that.

Almost comical. Almost makes him laugh.

Paris stands with his hands in his pockets and looks at him. Just looks at him.
He’s donned an old suit one of the parents must have given him, decades out of fashion, and with that expression on his face he looks like a cheesy villain from a blurred out movie. He’s the hero no one wanted. The companion no one needed.

“You’re breaking my heart sitting here all alone,” Paris says, and all of a sudden everything stops where it is.

Two sides of the war, friends who are supposed to be enemies, a woman’s face neither of them can remember. None of this makes sense. He’s not supposed to look at Paris and feel an outpouring of relief, like it really will rain when the clouds are grey, like caterpillars do turn into cocoons.

It’s just that the world makes sense.
For the first time, the world makes sense to him.
He’s got a hundred plastic inhalers to help him breathe.
And all the while he was breathing smoky air wondering when the haze will clear.
It’s clear now.
And it's the first time he doesn't want to be anyone else.

“I don’t mean to break your heart,” he manages, taking a sip of the punch and thinking damn that would give any healthy man diabetes.
“After all, I’m the one who’s got respiratory issues. If anyone should end up in the emergency room, it’s me.”

Paris’ laugh always comes out of nowhere, like even he can’t believe it.
“Anything to get out of here, huh?”

Menelaus shrugs. “I could fake an asthma attack, but I don’t need to. I used to be so desperate to get out of here, but now … I guess it’s just any other place. I mean, you’re here. And doesn’t seem like you’re packing your bags and running away.”

Paris crosses his arms. “You’ve got a strange little family, M.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A considering look crosses the other man’s face. “How come you’re the way you are? Where did Menelaus come from, in this strange little place, in this strange little family of yours?”

“You mean, how did I turn out so boring in a family of hoarders and alcoholics?”
Another laugh.
It’s something he noticed since their first game of Risk: Trojan Edition. (Gods, who would’ve guessed, back then?) That he makes Paris laugh, for real. And he’s not arrogant enough to assume he’s the only person who’s seen that, but it sure feels good.

“But I kind of like it that way,” Paris admits, still standing at a distance, hands still in his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Sentimentalities embarrass him.

“Kind of like what?” Menelaus asks, curious this time.

Paris sighs and rolls his eyes, trying to think of it, going pink because he doesn’t want to say. “You know that old Billy Joel song that used to play on the radio all the time? Probably played at our parents’ wedding or some shit like that? Gods it’s so cheesy, I can’t even stand it.”

Menelaus wracks his brain.
A familiar melody.

“I like you like that,” Paris says, and pointedly looks at the ground. “Billy Joel-style.”

He likes him like that.
Menelaus squints and tries to think of the lyrics.
A familiar chorus.

“You like me because I didn’t start the fire?”

Paris bursts into laughter.
“No!”

He has to tease, he just has to. “You like me because I’m a scene from an Italian restaurant?”

Another roll of the eyes. “Noooo.”

It’s ok. He knows. He understands how Paris likes him, he doesn’t need it spelled out.
He gets up from his empty table, puts the diabetically sweet punch down, swings an arm around the other man. Who is his friend.
Kid Menelaus on lonesome adventures would never have believed it.

“I like you Billy Joel-style too.”


“Hey, wanna hear me sing Purple Rain?!” Diomedes roars to the crowd, which has mostly emptied out, and the room seems to sigh in a wake of dust and dead laughter.

“Diomedes, it’s three in the morning. Please let’s go to bed!” Briseis pleads.

Diomedes trips over his own feet but manages to stay upright, swaying to an imaginary beat while Agamemnon tries to get the words to stop freezing on the karaoke machine.
He smacks it one, two, three times. Then throws his drink at it.

“Jesus!” Briseis complains.

“Cheesus,” Paris chimes up from the back, waving a toothpick and a piece of cheddar.

“Why are we here?” Briseis groans. “We’re not even in the scene Achilles wants to film! Why. Are. We. Here!”

“Purplerainpurplerainpurplerainpurplerainpurplerain,” Diomedes chants, about to pass out.

The karaoke machine sizzles and comes to life again.
Flamenco guitar fills the air.

Agamemnon perks up in excitement.
“¡Ven a bailar conmigo!” He grabs Diomedes and begins to tango him around the stage.

“Since when does Agamemnon speak Spanish?” Paris asks, munching on his cheddar.

“He did a study abroad thing …” Menelaus explains, distracted by the final quest of Level 25, the cheesemaker making his case at court upon breaking some strict regulations of French cheesemaking. (“I can assure ze jury, ze cheese was made from pasteurized cow’s milk!” glows the speech bubble on the screen).

“Purplerainpurplerainwannaseeyouunderneaththepurplerain -”

“Woohooo!” Agamemnon, as it turns out, is pretty good at the tango.

“Is this real?” Briseis mutters to herself. “Please tell me none of this is real.”

“We can dream, sister.” Paris has forgotten to marvel at the craziness of it. It’s much easier to be a part of it. Embrace the crazy, as they say. He doesn’t know who says it, but it’s a thing.

“Wanna get out of here?” Menelaus asks him.

He thinks about it. It’s funny. He’s actually enjoying himself.
“Nah. I think we’ll stay right here.”

And they do.

Chapter 9: Week 13.5

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

A tinkling piano fills the corridor. The camera moves in a long shot following the carpeted floors into ornate gilded chambers.
A four-post bed in the style of the Baroque, and a crystal chandelier casting light into every corner of the room.
The camera holds still to capture the silhouette of the Argive king rising for his morning meditation. The piano takes off into a crescendo.

I live in The Palace Hotel in downtown Argos, in the western wing.
My name is Agamemnon.
I am 25 years old. Ok, fine. I am 35 years old (don’t look at me like that, 35 is the new 25).
Like every good Argive, I know how to take care of myself (I mean, just look at me).
The first thing I do every morning is spend 5 minutes watching the sunrise. Why, you may ask? Because the sun is strength. The sun is power. The sun is the life force of the universe, and shines on all that is sacred … Ok, ok. I guess I don’t really get up at sunrise. But I do get up in the morning!

Fine. You’ve got me. I only wake up at noon. Sheesh.
Anyway, where was I?
When I wake up, I eat a nutritious breakfast of three almonds and a cup of soybean milk.
Next, I do one hundred push-ups.
After that, I take a shower. I use a face scrub made out of chewed up kalamata olive seeds to exfoliate my skin. Then I moisturize with the blood of my enemies. It’s anti-aging.
I look in the mirror and I see a man. A king. A murderer.
And I ask myself.
Is this who I am?
Does Agamemnon exist?
Or is he only … an illusion?
Perhaps my reflection is a mask. Hard as wood. Cold as the veins beneath the earth connecting each root system to another. Which makes me think of the hazelnut tree, as I love hazelnuts. Once, I did a study abroad in Azerbaijan and volunteered at a hazelnut farm. I drank hazelnut coffee and ate hazelnut truffles. At the airport I bought those little souvenir packages of roasted hazelnuts. My brother ate them and went into anaphylactic shock. What a memorable day.
Where was I?
A mask.
There are different kinds of masks all over the world, aren’t there? Kabuki theater comes to mind. Venetian carnival. Those aloe-vera infused sheet masks you put on your face while watching soap operas …

“Ok, who gave Agamemnon a voiceover?!” Achilles demands, glaring at the crew.

“That’s not even what you eat for breakfast!” Menelaus puzzles, head cocked to one side as he listens. “This is just … a bunch of lies!”

“What was I supposed to do? They gave me a microphone and three hours!” Agamemnon protests.

“Tell the … truth?”

“The what?”

“The truth!”

Agamemnon scratches his head. “Trooth. Treth? Trith? Am I saying that right?”

Achilles claps a hand over his face.

“And what about the decorations? They’re not very … historically accurate,” Menelaus points out.

“Oh, it was accuracy we were aiming for,” Achilles drawls, eyes shooting daggers at anyone who dares look at him.

One of the other crew members continues to listen to the voiceover. “The rest of this is just Agamemnon talking about his interests and playing flamenco guitar for 45 minutes.”
A pause. “Wow, you’re good.”

Agamemnon looks smug.

“Oooh, can I get a voiceover?” Antilochus asks.
Menelaus hesitates. “Can I?”
“I’d like one too!” someone from the back shouts.

Achilles looks around at them. “Sure, you can all get voiceovers.”

“Really?!”

“Of course. In fact, I’m doing one as well.”

“Oh, what about?”

“I’ll do a little monologue about how you’re a disgrace and you better get back to work now.”

“Tyrant,” Antilochus sniffs.

They scatter.


“Hello, my name is Hector.”

“You don’t have to introduce yourself, sweetie,” says Andromache.

Hector doesn’t hear her. “Hello, my name is Hector. This is Dummy Hector. Today we’re going to show you how to make … olive … tapenade. Or as I like to call it - the rich man’s pesto.”

“I thought it was the poor man’s pesto?” Deiphobus whispers.

“Technically olives are more expensive than basil. But then you factor in the cost of pine nuts and Parmigiano-Reggiano, so yeah, I guess it depends,” Polydorus explains.

They observe, arms folded, as Hector prepares the ingredients.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t put the anchovies in like that. Overpowers the other flavors,” Polydorus sniffs.

“That’s Hector for you. Overpowering,” Deiphobus agrees.

Andromache rolls her eyes at them and continues filming with the camcorder.
Without Achilles and the cameraman on set, they’ve been hard-pressed to find anything to do. That’s when Hammin’ it Up with the Hectors! began, though it took a while to explain to everyone else that the show does not, in fact, include ham.

“Look at the way he’s chopping those olives.”

“Disgraceful.”

“Okay, that’s it!” Andromache cries, whipping round to face them. “You two are full of criticisms today! Why don’t you try doing what he’s doing?”

“I’m glad you asked!” Polydorus exclaims, and struts behind the kitchen counter, Deiphobus in tow.

They seize the tools from Hector and begin chopping and pounding with meticulous efficiency.

“Hey! No hijacking the Hectors!” Hector protests, trying to regain control.

Dummy Hector flops over.

Polydorus and Deiphobus, in a hurry, dump the contents into the food processor.

“Give that back!” Hector yells. “I haven’t even seasoned it yet!”

They wrestle with the food processor, yanking it back and forth, until Deiphobus accidentally hits the switch with his behind. In the confusion, Dummy Hector’s face has gotten into the mixture. The blades begin to whir.

“NOOOOOOOOOO -”


“Alright, let’s do this!” Achilles announces, and the cameraman braces himself. They’re all set to shoot a flashback scene of the Argive palace. They’ve lost sleep over the set, burning the midnight oil (literally, since the electricity goes off every few minutes) to paint cardboard cutouts of Corinthian style columns, covering a part of the floor in an iridescent resin that almost resembles marble.

A chlamys, draped over a wooden stand.
Its scarlet fabric flutters as the trails of blood in shark-infested waters. A row of servants lift the mantle, handling it as carefully as an artifact, turning it this way and that to brush off the dust.

Then Agamemnon, standing still as a mountain, shoulders broad and stiff. They place the chlamys over his shoulders, in preparation for war.

“Cut,” Achilles says, resting his chin on his hand, nearly satisfied. “Good.”

“Can we go back to Troy now?” Menelaus asks.

“No.”

Sighs, all around.

They gear up for the next scene.
Agamemnon paces about in his red cloak. Someone has left out a basket of snacks and he picks it up, rifling through the contents to find granola bars, apples, and jerky.

“Agamemnon. Go and fetch Clytemnestra from the dressing room. We need her for the next scene,” Achilles commands.

They hear footsteps in the hallway outside. Stomping, like someone with great big feet.

Agamemnon cocks his head to one side, growing pale. He sniffs the air.
“Trouble ahead.”

“Aww, what’s wrong? Is Aggie-little-lamb scared of the Big Bad Wife?” Paris taunts.

Agamemnon stares back at him, eyes round as saucers; dazed. He walks over to the door as though in a trance, basket dangling from his hand.
Raising a fist, he knocks on the door.

“Come iiiin,” coos a voice.

Agamemnon goes in.

“Goodness!” they hear him thunder.
“What big eyes you have!”

“The better to admire you with, my dear.”

“What big lips you have!”

“The better to kiss you with, my dear.”

“What a - what a big knife you have!”

“The better to stab you with, my dear!!!”

Menelaus passes around pairs of earplugs to muffle the screaming.
“So sorry!” he says, smiling sheepishly. “Happens all the time!”


They wrap up filming by the end of the week. The cameraman packs up his equipment and watches as the crew collapses the set and disposes of props they don’t need anymore. Agamemnon and Menelaus sit on the floor, busily scribbling thank you notes to the university’s classical museum for the artifacts they borrowed.

“Hey, everyone. Thanks for all your hard work, we really appreciate it!” Patroclus says.

“And now it’s time to party!!!” Antilochus announces.

“No, Antilochus. No it’s not.”

“Everybody put on your feather boas, we’re going to the disco!!!”

“No, Antilochus. No we’re not.”

~~~

“We should go out anyway,” Paris says. “It’s not everyday we finish filming. We should celebrate.”

Menelaus looks around at the decaying hotel and takes a puff of his inhaler. There’s a large wine stain on the carpet, and it smells like mildew. They’re lucky the place doesn’t collapse over their heads. It’s not like his dad ever completed routine inspection.
“I’m supposed to take over this place when my parents croak,” he sounds out, feeling like there’s a grey cloud forming over his head.

Paris frowns. “I thought Agamemnon’s the oldest?”

“Yeah, but he’s going to compete professionally in flamenco. He won’t have time to run a hotel.”

“Neither do you. You’ll be a world-famous pharmacist by then, and world-famous pharmacists just don’t have time for the hospitality industry,” Paris points out.

Menelaus chuckles. “As if any pharmacist is world-famous.”

“You’ll be the first.”

Menelaus thinks about it, and shrugs helplessly. “You ever think about how we can’t choose where we come from?”

Paris regards him. “And where exactly do you wish you were from?”

“... Not here.”

Yeah, Paris thinks to himself. Haven’t they all felt that before? He sees Menelaus staring off into space, probably a million thoughts, a million memories about this place, and only a quarter of them good. Maybe not even a quarter. And even Paris has a quarter of good memories in Troy. He starts to feel sorry, then shrugs it off because feeling sorry never did anything for anyone, and Menelaus needs something else from him.

“Hey,” he says, an idea forming itself, faint as watercolor. “You never really showed me those places you talked about.”

“Hmm?” Menelaus, surprised.

“The jungle with the Bengal tigers. The bottom of the ocean. All those places you traveled to, y’know, in your adventure days.”

It’s a gamble. This is personal stuff™, and Paris is not used to prying in personal stuff™. In fact, he’s made it a rule not to. He keeps people at arms’ length and it may very well be the reason he doesn’t have any friends, doesn’t like his family, and goes around stealing people’s wives because no one in their right mind would pursue him romantically. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about this stuff, he has, maybe too much. But it’s the first time he’s acting on it.

If Menelaus turns him away, he’ll be crushed. Crushed like a bag of peanuts under a hammer. He’s putting his heart on the line, his pride, and if Menelaus says no, fuck off Paris you’re not my friend, he’ll have to grin and bear it but inside he’ll be crushed beyond recovery. He’s pathetic. But that’s the way it is.

But Menelaus, of course, always meets him halfway. They might be two people who always leave things half-done, but put them together and … something happens. He can’t quite put his finger on it.

“You’re right,” the other man says, half-smile forming. “I never really did.”

~~~

Palm trees sway like outstretched arms at a concert.
There’s a turquoise swimming pool, floating debris and scum. If they close their eyes and listen closely, the lapping water almost sounds like waves. They have to listen really closely, and sprinkle in some imagination. But it’s there.

Menelaus, in his board shorts and sunglasses, balances gingerly at the top of the ladder, grimaces. “Eughhh…”

“You can do it!” Paris hoots, waving at him from the sidelines.

Menelaus dips a toe in. “Unhhhh.”

Paris jogs towards him, gathering into a sprint. “Here we go!”

“Wait wait!” Menelaus startles. “Wait a minute -”

Paris grabs his hand, and they leap into the swimming pool in one boundless motion.
The splash, when it comes, resounds throughout the courtyard.
But Menelaus doesn’t hear, has no time to check his surroundings, because it’s blue, and blue, and blue.

He gazes about in awe, like an acrobat suspended on a trapeze, the bubbles rushing from his nose. His eyes hurt a little, but it doesn’t matter, because the murkiness of the pool clears away and they’re at the bottom of the ocean, aquatic wonderland, a coral reef there, an anemone here.

Something nudges his foot and he sees Paris’ grinning face waiting for him, hair drifting like seaweed into his eyes, and he can’t help but grin back. A clownfish hurries past them, a blue tang. And he remembers he likes aquariums and always wanted to take someone, and guess who he can take with him now?
He looks at Paris again, they wave at each other, movements slow and dreamy under the water.

Then he flails a little, wondering how he’s going to get back up, and that’s when Paris grabs his arm and they kick their feet, moving towards the surface in unison.

“Phew!!” Paris lets out, shaking his head like a wet dog, droplets all over his face, in his eyes.

Menelaus paddles over to him, quiet.

“Well? What did you think?” Paris is eager to know.

Menelaus struggles for words, picturing a dictionary, magicalawesomeserenedreamyiamsohappy appearing in his mind like ghost-bubbles. Doesn’t matter. Paris can tell what he’s thinking.

They float in the water, stupid smiles on their faces.
“Maybe we oughta get out of here before we’re infected with cholera,” Paris suggests.

~~~

A scythe, swinging through the trees. Boots crunching leaves underway.
Two explorers, hats perched precariously on their heads to keep out the drizzle, the sun, the sting of hornets.
It smells like insect repellent. And bloodlust.

“Careful,” Paris whispers. He holds his shotgun ready, holds out one hand for Menelaus to drop the bullets in.
“I see tracks over there.”

“Scratches like great big papaya leaves,” Menelaus confirms. They tread through the brush, eyes peeled for a flash of orange fur, for the telltale stripes.
Eyes on the prize.

“Smell that?” Paris asks, pointing at a red mark on the trees.

Menelaus leans over and sniffs it. “Just what I thought. Blood.”

“We’re gonna need a bigger gun,” Paris affirms.

The sunlight has reached its zenith. It’s so hot the crew takes shelter indoors. Patroclus dips a teabag in his mug, glancing outside the window for a second.

“... What are those two up to?” he murmurs, squinting to make out Paris and Menelaus’ small figures running around a palm tree. “What the hell?”

He watches them for another minute, wondering why they’re dressed up in explorer’s outfits. “Hmm.” He shrugs. Not the weirdest thing he’s seen all day.

“Oh, Paris!!! No!!!” Menelaus cries, pressing a towel against his comrade’s chest to stop the bleeding. Alas, it is to no avail. A tiger attack is, after all, fatal.
Man cannot defeat the most ferocious of beasts.
But at least they tried.

“Don’t -” Paris gasps, eyes wide to the sky. “Don’t - go - after - him -”

“No, no, no!” Menelaus sobs.

“He’ll kill you too,” Paris whispers. “Promise - me -”

“I can’t! It was our dream! We were going to display a magnificent tiger skin in our castle!” Menelaus exclaims, in hysterics.

Promise me.” Paris insists, mustering enough strength to look his comrade in the eyes, his fellow explorer, for they have been to the moon and back, they have been up the snowy terrain of Mount Everest, through the sand-crowned dunes of the Kalahari Desert. The two of them, they’ve been everywhere.

And now he meets his demise. Death by tiger.
A noble ending. Menelaus must carry on without him.

Menelaus wipes away his tears, scans the blood, and admits defeat. What else but to honor his friend’s dying wish?
“I promise.”

Paris takes one last heaving breath, closes his eyes, and goes slack.

The trees rain dewdrops onto their skin. Menelaus takes his hat off and places it over the face.

After a few minutes, a growling stomach can be heard.

“Say, wanna go for a snack?” Paris asks.
“I’m feeling for a milkshake.”

“Okay,” Menelaus shrugs. They get up and brush themselves off.

~~~

A rock n’ roll guitar riff plays on the radio. Paris has his seat back, feet up on the dashboard. They munch on French fries, sipping their milkshakes as they glance over the nothingness of the school parking lot.

“I bet you were a straight A student,” Paris muses, seeing a stray cat leap into a garbage bin.

“Well. I bet you were the type who aced his exams without even studying,” Menelaus replies.

Paris snorts. “Sure. But that all went away when I got to university. All of a sudden, I wasn’t such hot shit anymore.”

Menelaus gives a small smile, staring hard at the last place on earth he’s ever thought to revisit. The school yard is empty, but he can picture scores of students, hear that bell, the monotone buzz of the principal’s voice over the speakers.

Laughter, chit chat, the latest gossip.
The cafeteria full of clacking plastic trays, lunch ladies yelling, students crowding a table. And himself, over there in the corner, munching on last night’s leftovers packed neatly in a brown paper bag.

He doesn’t like to think about it. But sitting here in this car, smelling leather seats and salty potato and strawberry flavoring from the drinks, the school has no power over him. It doesn’t have the power to influence his emotions. It doesn’t have the power to shape his actions. Maybe it did once. But it doesn’t anymore.

He’s not a nobody who eats alone and has nowhere to be.
He’s Menelaus and he can go anywhere he likes.

“Bet you had a date to prom,” he mutters.

Paris smirks at him from where he’s sitting. “What, you want a peek at my yearbook?”

He wonders what it would have been like if he and Paris were from the same town, had gone to the same school. Sadly, maybe nothing would change.

The gymnasium is softly lit, colorful balloons lining the walls, a folding table set up in the corner with rows of Dixie cups and a big bowl of fruit punch.
The teachers frown disapprovingly at the students in their pastel dresses and polka-dot bow ties, slow-dancing to the music.

On the stage, the band plays.

Menelaus strolls onto the scene, shoes squeaking on the shiny floor, trying not to look at his schoolmates, heart sinking.
He doesn’t know why he bothered coming, why that ticket to the dance stayed crumpled up in his pocket for so damn long.
This is a joke.
He sighs and begins to make his way over to the bleachers, where he’ll sit with the other dateless kids like a wilted violet and lie to himself that he doesn’t care.

All of a sudden, the lights begin to blink.
The crowd of couples separate, stumbling over the floor in alarm, wondering what the hell is going on.
Motorcycles rev outside, and the doors are kicked down by a gang of rowdy kids from the rival school.

“It’s the Trojans!!!” someone screams, and the teenagers gather to the side while the enemy swaggers through the door.

“Gods, this music is crap,” one of the Trojans complains. They start shooting at the stage. The band flees for their lives.
The Trojans take over; a rock n’ roll guitar riff fills the air, and the onlookers stand open-mouthed, not knowing how to dance to this music.

Menelaus sits hunched up, bow tie feeling tight around his neck.

“Hey.”
It’s one of the Trojans, walking up to him.
He jumps.

“Where’s your date?”

“...” He’s not going to admit to this pompadoured freak that he doesn’t have one.

“The name’s Paris. Guess I’m your date tonight.”

“... No you’re not.”

“Come on.” Paris takes his arm and leads him over to the dreaded dance floor.

And jams to the music.

“But - but - everyone’s staring at us!”

“I don’t give a shit,” Paris says. “Do you?”

He thinks about it. He looks at his schoolmates from the corner of his eye, watching, judging. They start to blur together, and it’s like they’re not even real.
Paris is real. The music is real.

“What the hell,” he exhales, and starts jammin too.

His inhaler falls out of his pocket, but for the first time, his breathing doesn’t act up.

They jam until the music fades away, the people, the decorations, and it’s just them and the empty school gym.

He keels over, exhausted, hands on his knees, face hurting from the way his mouth is stretched wide. The ecstasy runs through his blood to the very core. It’s adrenaline like he’s never felt before, and even when it all comes down and he realizes he and Paris have broken into his old school to perform wacky moves in a nonexistent prom that happened a decade ago …

Life is funny.

Paris claps him on the back.

“I was imagining a scenario,” Menelaus laughs. “Where one of the teachers declared I was not allowed to dance with a Trojan, and you started a switchblade fight in the middle of the dance floor.”

“You know me so well,” Paris nods.

They catch their breath and let the image sink in one last time.

“So?” Paris proposes. “Ready to go?”

More ready than he’ll ever be. He catches Paris’ eye. There’s something … cathartic about facing all those places he traversed alone for so long, believing he’d never have what he wanted. Something silly, too, going back to how things were, only to find they’ll never be the same because now he’s confronted them, and he’s got someone looking out for him.

“No?” Paris asks, misunderstanding his silence. “You wanna stay and act out the knife fight? Maybe your father comes in and forbids you from ever seeing me again, but at midnight I throw a rock at your window and you climb down and we escape and go to Wisconsin on the back of my motorcycle.”

“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” Menelaus realizes, shocking himself.

Paris says nothing.
“Yeah?” he voices, after what seems like eternity.

“Yeah.”

And that’s that.


The window is streaked with rain, like his tears.
Thunder screams protest outside. Lightning crackles.
The glow of the lamp, illuminating the single bed and its unwitting patient.

So young. So beautiful.

“Hector! Sweetheart, please open the door!” Andromache, on the other side. His darling wife, who doesn’t get it. She just doesn’t get it.

“No,” he mutters, and buries his face against the blanket.

“We said we were sorry,” Deiphobus huffs. Polydorus nudges him.

“Hector. Dei and Polydorus are here, and they want to apologize.” Andromache bangs on the door again, then sighs because her knuckles are turning red and Hector is obviously not going to oblige. “Sorry, boys. Maybe another time.”

They hear some commotion down the hallway.

“They’re back!” Polydorus exclaims, and rushes to greet the visitors.
“Hey, guys! How was Argos?”

“Depressing.”

“But at least we managed to finish,” Patroclus smiles. He waves at Andromache, who gives him a thumbs-up and hurries over to the room Hector and the patient are in.
“Hector! Open up, Achilles and Patroclus are here!”

“No. They’ve clearly abandoned us,” Hector whispers, they can barely hear him from this side of the door.

“We brought a meatloaf!” Patroclus says.
“Mmmm, smell the aroma!”

“Doesn’t Dummy Hector love meatloaf?” Andromache asks. “It was nice of them to bring him something.”

“Well obviously he can’t enjoy it because he has no FACE!” Hector shrieks, standing up and kicking his chair to the floor. He opens the door in an abrupt movement and points behind him at the mannequin lying supine in bed. Its head is wrapped in bandages.

Patroclus leans against the wall, taking Andromache aside.
“What’s this about, really?” he whispers.

“I don’t know,” Andromache frets.

“He’s been obsessed for weeks. What is it about that department store mannequin?”

“Hell if I know,” Andromache replies. “But if you don’t include Dummy Hector, Real Hector excludes you from his life. Maybe it’s a midlife crisis.”

“He’s barely thirty, Andromache.”

“Yeah. But apparently midlife crises can happen at any age. Has this ever happened to you?”

Patroclus tries to think. “Well, when Achilles was really stressed out one time, he ran away from home. We looked for him everywhere. It turned out he was in Scyros doing drag at Lycomedes’ cabaret.”

Andromache steps back. “Achilles?”

“Mmhm.”

They turn to look at Hector, who is patting Dummy Hector’s head and completely ignoring Achilles’ attempts at conversation.

“... Maybe it’ll pass,” Andromache says, though she isn’t sure.

“Maybe it will.”

~~~

“We’re sorry,” Polydorus says, and places a hand on Hector’s shoulder.

“But you really are awful at cooking,” Dei points out.

“You’re not helping!” Polydorus hisses at him.

They’re gathered in the room together, Achilles having cut up the meatloaf so everyone has a piece. It’s like a godawful thanksgiving dinner, no one present actually wanting to be there.
Hector is only a smidge closer to listening to them.
“It’s like you killed a part of me,” he finally says.

“Oh Hector, we’re really sorry!” Polydorus caves in, tearing up.

Deiphobus rolls his eyes. He’s not a softie like Polydorus. Even if he is feeling kinda guilty that they blended Dummy Hector’s face off.

“But look at it this way! Faceless mannequins are all the rage now! Look at Paris!”

“Hmm?” Paris asks.

“Not that Paris,” Polydorus says. “Look at London! Look at Milan! What do you see, showing off the highest quality textiles, the most glamorous fashions? Faceless mannequins! Dummy Hector has a bright future ahead of him.” He pats Hector’s back, like that fixes everything.

Hector frowns. “But I don’t want him to leave me. He belongs here. We go together.”

“Yeaaaaahhh,” Polydorus starts, gauging how best to approach the subject. “We’ve been talking about this. Hector, you’ve got your own life. You’ve got a loving wife, a nice family, a promising career, a city to protect … maybe it’s time.”

“Time for what?” Hector asks, suspiciously.

“Time … to let him …”

“Don’t you say it!” Hector cuts him off. “Don’t you even say it! You’ve never liked Dummy Hector, you only pretended to accept him! Well, you’re a phony! You’re all phonies! I’m done! I’m done with this family!”

He storms off.

Paris continues watching television in the background.

Polydorus zeroes in on him. “Were you even listening?”

Paris looks up. “Huh?”

“We’re having an important family discussion, it’d be nice if you did something other than sit around!”

Paris shakes his head. “Whatever, man. You think you know everything. So what if he wants to keep the dummy? It makes him happy. He’s not so serious all the time, he can think about something other than war. You guys are busy criticizing his cooking, but when was the last time he even tried to cook? You ever think about that? And yeah, yeah, I get it, he has a wife who can’t put up with this shit forever, but I don’t know if you’ve met Andromache, she’s a freakin nice person, I think they’ll be fine. I just think you’re a hypocrite for coming here and apologizing for damaging his things, then proceeding to tell him what to do with his life. I wouldn’t break your bicycle, say sorry, then tell you you can’t ride bicycles anymore. What’s the point of that?”
Paris pauses, because he’s run out of breath.

Polydorus and Deiphobus stare at him, speechless.

“But sure. You do whatever you want. Who am I, right? What’s my opinion matter?” Paris gets up, takes a bite of meatloaf, and walks away without a care in the world.

The lamp flickers.
Polydorus turns to look at Dummy Hector and sighs in resignation.

Chapter 10: Week 14

Chapter Text

At half past six the water laps at the shoreline like a many-layered taffeta dress. Seagulls cry at the edge of sunrise - and waddle along the sand in scattered flocks. The cameraman picks through trails of seaweed and broken seashells, tripping over a hole in the sand about a foot deep.

He sets up his equipment methodically, positioning the camera just so in order to get a full view of the glowing horizon. In the past months he’s learned the camera like a second skin. The lens itself is an extension of himself - and when he finds that perfect frame, some part of him gives. It’s almost relief, exhilaration, like a blind man regaining sight or rinsing salt from the eyes.

He braces himself to film rosy-fingered dawn in her long-awaited arrival. But just as he begins, the camera shuts off. He tries to restart it, to no avail.

“What do you mean the camera is broken?” Achilles demands. He’s not as furious as the cameraman anticipated, the line between his brows only characteristic at this point.

The cameraman looks at the ground.

“It was an old camera, anyway,” Patroclus points out. “Maybe the department will send us a replacement.”

“It was like pulling teeth getting anything from them in the first place,” Achilles huffs. But he picks up a phone and calls.

“They said there were some request forms we could fill out. But we won’t be getting anything for another two or three weeks, even if the forms get approved.”

“Shit,” Patroclus sighs.

The tent is quiet for a few minutes.

Patroclus looks up. “Maybe we could ask -”

“No,” Achilles interrupts, tone final.

“But what choice do we have? We’ll miss the deadline.”

“I promised myself I would never go begging and I won’t.”

“... You could just borrow the money. You’ll pay him back.”

“It’s humiliating!”

“It has to be done.”

The cameraman waits outside, trying not to eavesdrop on the argument, watching the extras hanging around and drinking coffee. It’s a surprisingly chilly morning, signalling the end of summer.

It’s decided that Achilles and Patroclus will take the bus back to Phthia.

“No worries,” Patroclus reassures him. “We have reinforcements. Meanwhile, hang in there, okay? It seems you’ve got a bit of an unprecedented vacation.”

Unprecedented.

But he’s the cameraman, and cameramen don’t take vacations. Without the camera, he’s just …
Cameraman.

He looks down at his hands, which are usually busy adjusting the lens and hoisting the camera in the air. They are empty now. And suddenly he can’t see the sunlight anymore. His whole world is plunged in darkness.

He’s been sitting outside Achilles and Patroclus’ newly erected tent.
He doesn’t know how many hours have passed, but night must have fallen because he can smell the campfire, hear distant voices that sound like indecipherable buzzing over an unknown radio channel.

The tent flap is pushed aside. Achilles comes out and notices he’s still there. A second of silence passes as the man studies him, reaches for words that aren’t there.

“Know why I wanted to be a filmmaker?” Achilles asks, and comes over to sit next to him, a large space between them on the log.

The cameraman moves his lips, but they are dry as sand. He could never speak much behind the lens, ever the silent observer. Now it’s as though he’s forgotten how to for good.
“No,” he croaks out.

Achilles doesn’t continue for a while, kicking his feet in the sand, rubbing his fingers over the fabric of his jeans. Not the chatty type.
“I guess I had something to say that I couldn’t put in words,” Achilles tries. “I must have had it for a long time, carried in the back of my head, the bottom of my heart. Heavy. When I finished school, and left my hometown, it became harder and harder to ignore.” He swallowed a little, standing up and sticking his hands in his pockets, pacing around, as though talking with earnest intent is a chore, a real task, like Sisyphus rolling the rock up the hill.

It’s a struggle the cameraman is all too familiar with.

“Making art is only … finding a kind of freedom that you can’t get anywhere else. The freedom to say what you want to say. The freedom to confront the world. The freedom to give something of yourself, when you otherwise wouldn’t be ready, when that part of you may be concealed forever if you didn’t have a way to get it out. Am I making any sense?”

The cameraman nods.

“Patroclus used to say …” Achilles presses his lips shut, turns towards the silent tent, and turns to face the cameraman again.
“He used to say it was like peeling off a scab. You just can’t help it. People who want to make movies are going to make movies.”

“It’s habit?” the cameraman asks.

“It’s nature.” Achilles lets out a breath, as though exhausted from speaking. “He also says it’s because directors are stubborn fucks, but that’s a story for another day.”
A small chuckle.
It’s the freest the cameraman has ever seen him. He’s spent all these months a dedicated shadow to the other man, and it’s the first time Achilles has spoken more than a couple of sentences to him at a time.

“Of course, you could film something and keep it to yourself. The first documentary I ever made … it was about this old, failing nightclub on the island of Scyros. Scyros Is Burning.” Achilles makes an amused sound, reminiscing. “All about these drag queens and what they got up to - the footage is lost now. I never showed anyone.”

“Why not?” the cameraman asks.

“Fear,” Achilles shrugs. “It took a long time to get to this point, where I don’t give a shit whether people like my documentaries or not. But you always care … even when you say you don’t. Art is meant to be shared. It has an audience, a viewer. It’s a conversation. Otherwise, it’s not art.”

The cameraman wraps his arms around himself against the night wind. He thinks about the cast, the crew, everything they’ve shared in the making of this.

“Or maybe I’m just deluding myself, and this documentary really is a piece of shit.”

“No,” the cameraman objects. “We’ve got something good here. I know it.”

“We’ve done the best we can with the kind of lunatics we’ve been working with,” Achilles agrees.

This makes the cameraman laugh, even if his toes are frozen into lumps of clay.

“Anyway -” Achilles yawns, stretches, and claps the cameraman on the back. “We’ll get you that new camera. Don’t think you can get out of work so easily.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the cameraman replies.

Achilles nods, pauses to say something more, thinks better of it, and retreats into his tent.

~~~

In the morning, Achilles and Patroclus catch the first bus to Phthia.


“You alright, lad?”

He moves his head to acknowledge the voice, then notices the bright neon rescue tube held in the lifeguard’s muscular arms. Since when did the beach have a lifeguard?

He blinks and squints at the stranger, the rays of the setting sun producing a glare.

“Some of these people were concerned about you. Said you’ve been standing here the whole day.” The lifeguard hesitates. “Said you didn’t respond to their attempts to talk to you.”

What people? He hasn’t noticed anything.
He looks down at his feet, buried in slush.
Oh.
He’s waist-deep in seawater.
How long has he been here? He can’t tell. He has no memories of the past few hours.

“You got a name, lad?” the lifeguard asks, trying to placate.

It’s a silly question. Of course he has a name.
Even if he can’t remember it at the moment.
A name, a history, a purpose.
He doesn’t seem able to recall any of those things.

“Got ID?” the lifeguard presses.

That’s when the splashes come, someone sprinting into the water, arms coming around him, and the scent of the salt breeze.

“You! Stay back!” the lifeguard warns.

“I know him, I know him!” the newcomer insists.

He would recognize that voice anywhere.

Something seems to spark within him, a bit of loose wiring coming to life again. He moves his neck, his shoulders, places his hands over the arms wrapped tight around him.

“Cameraman! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Antilochus exclaims, voice laced with panic, then relief, then concern. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his pajamas are soaking wet. The waves are gentle around them, drawing their bodies in a watery embrace.

“Sorry,” the cameraman gets out. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

“We heard,” Antilochus says, calmly; kindly.
“I’m so sorry, cameraman.”

That makes things seem so final, even though he’s been told it’s a temporary issue.

The sunset blurs before him.

“We’re okay,” Antilochus says, to the lifeguard, who finally leaves them be.
He looks at the cameraman.
“We’re okay,” he says again, for them alone.

He can’t answer.

“Hey,” Antilochus gets out, catching his eye. “You’re going to be okay.”

Antilochus can’t possibly know that.

“But I don’t know who I am,” the cameraman gets out, a hoarse whisper.

“You’re the cameraman. You’re our cameraman. And everything will be alright.”

His foggy mind clears a little at the words.
He doesn’t hear music. Only Antilochus’ clear, calm voice, guiding him back to shore.
And those two eyes staring back at him, the whites of the eyes, and the irises with their little threads and layers - so many shades of brown where the light falls in different places.

They’re like a forgotten planet.
A picture of space.
Or Mars, through a telescope.
That’s what those eyes look like.

“Alright,” he answers, seeing Antilochus again.

Back to earth.

~~~

They stroll along the beach, interrupting the seagulls.
Antilochus finds some discarded French fries and tosses them at the birds, laughing at the way they swoop in and peck.

There’s a semblance of normalcy resuming. The cameraman feels hermit crabs crawling between his toes and looks with his eyes instead of the camera. Then he looks at Antilochus - sunkissed and happy, his grin bright against the darkening evening.

Sand sticks to his skin in minute grains, he blinks it away from his eyelashes. The waves crash a few feet away from them, frothy white. Like himself. Crashing and foaming. He doesn’t feel quite solid anymore.
But that’s okay. The sea might not have a shape, but everything falls back into place where it should. At least, he thinks it does.

A phone rings.

Antilochus kicks an empty aluminum can away from the water and sighs.
“‘Lo?”

The cameraman watches his glow seem to dim, watt by watt.

“Yeah. Mmhm. Scream louder, why don’t you? We both know I’m deaf.”
A wicked cackle.

He can’t tell if Antilochus is actually amused or not, there’s a certain serious air taking place, his voice almost sounding gruff. It’s the kind of tone a person takes with someone who knows them very well.

“I can barely hear you with this goddamn ocean behind me!” Antilochus yells, pretending. Then he laughs some more. “Ok fine. Fine, fine.”

The cameraman can’t hear the person on the other side, but it seems like whoever it is talks a mile a minute.

“What do you mean, I’ve got no excuse? Do you think we all just roast marshmallows and sing kumbaya when A + P are out of town?”
They do.

Antilochus lets out a groan, juvenile.
“Fiiiiine. I’ll be there. No need to complain, I said I’ll be there. Ok love you bye.”
He clicks the phone shut and rolls his eyes.

The cameraman gives him a questioning look.

“I have to go home for my niece’s birthday party,” Antilochus explains.
“Achilles’ dad told my dad there’s no filming going on now. So I have to go.”

“Oh,” the cameraman says, feeling himself crumbling into seafoam again.

“You’re coming with me,” Antilochus states, matter-of-fact.

“I … am?” He’s never been to Pylos before. It’s kind of out of the way.

“Yup!”

He opens his mouth, but no protest sounds out.
---

That’s how they end up waiting at the bus stop in the middle of the night. Nothing in hand but a plastic bag of convenience store snacks. A lone streetlight flickers on and off. A dragonfly collides with it, the resounding noise rhythmic, almost peaceful.

He listens to Antilochus crunching crackers, to the crinkly foil of the chip packet, to the thud of the plastic bag knocking against the side of his knee.
It’s so, so quiet at night, away from the encampment.
Any other time, and he would have felt lonely.
Not now, though. Antilochus is noisy even when he doesn’t talk, but there’s a comfort to all of the sounds he makes.

They wait.


Cracks in the pavement, under his shoes. An old superstition.
It’s a short walk to the old house, number 13, the one with the red roof and the peeling paint. He used to like the way old paint smelled, the way it snapped and came away in his fingers, crackly and thin.

He remembers hot afternoons, his backside aching from sitting on the stool for so long, repainting the outside wall of the house while his father reshingled the roof. They used to do upkeep, back then. Maybe it was just the two of them, and Mr. Phoinix who came round sometimes to weed the garden, but they were proud of their home.

“Most people only get one home. You gotta take care of what you have,” his father had said.
Of course, now the old man can’t live up to that promise. It’s up to Achilles to find that home most people are supposed to get, the one he’s been looking for ever since he left. The one he’s wanted for him and Patroclus, to set up, to build, to have a place to return to when they’ve packed up their filming equipment and put away the scripts.

He and Patroclus walk hand in hand up to the worn gate, unlatch it, and enter.

His words come back to bite him in the ass.
“You won’t see me walking through that door again!”
And here he is.

Reality is cruel.

~~~

“... Well? You forgot where to go in your own house, boy?” Cigarette smoke stings his nose, the old man’s voice muffled by the stick hanging out of his mouth.

Peleus points at the stairs. “It’s all the same.”

He nods, hauls their suitcase up the stairs. From the corner of his eye he sees Patroclus give the old man a kiss on both cheeks and a good-natured hug, “How’ve you been?” etc.

The house smells like flea-bitten curtains and last night’s cooking. When he gets into their room, the room he’s been sleeping in his whole life, he yanks open the window to air it out. His father clearly hasn’t moved a thing.

Everything’s there.

His childhood posters of documentary films, the tape holding them in place yellow from age. His record collection, nearly bursting out of its shelf. The bed, originally a single, replaced with a larger mattress in recent years to accommodate two people. But the pillow cases are the same, and the quilt his grandmother made.

He sits on the bed and soaks it in.
He never wanted to come home.

He can hear Patroclus downstairs chatting away and sighs, getting up. They’ll accuse him of being a recluse, for holing himself up here.
He unpacks the suitcase and goes downstairs.

~~~

“- and people still go there! Well, I guess it’s the only real hotel left in Argos, but still. Hellish.”

If there’s one thing Achilles will give the old man, he’s always listened to Patroclus. From the start. Even when they were kids. It’s a sort of fatherly patience Peleus has with no one else. Patroclus was always meant to be a part of the family.

“Hmph. Rich people,” Peleus grunts, and takes another drag of his cigarette.

Along the staircase are framed photographs nailed to the wall. As though they’ve been there all along, and they have. Little fragments of times past.
Achilles’ grandparents, stiff and formal in black and white.
Peleus in his younger days, fishing.
Peleus and the gang.
Baby Achilles.
Toddler Achilles in a toy automobile.
Kid Achilles grinning on the beach, Peleus standing impassive behind him.
High school graduate Achilles, hat and diploma.
Achilles and Patroclus, grinning under confetti, Just Married scrawled on the back of their car.
A whole life.
Three generations, framed and compressed. There isn’t even room on the wall, it’s packed full.

He pauses in front of the photos, looks behind him, and there Patroclus is smiling the exact same smile, animatedly recounting tales from the set to a surly old man.

They’re so young in the photograph.
Achilles studies the muted colors and travels back in time.
“You don’t have any idea,” he wants to tell them.
Because they didn’t.

“- you see? You can call him three times, four, five, six. He’s somewhere else. Stuck in his head.” Fond amusement in the voice, and a minute later Patroclus padding up to him and running a finger down the nape of his neck.

Back to earth.


A wall of chatter, rushing over them.
Red balloons glisten like cherry flavored lollipops.
People stand in corners talking, holding paper plates filled with food from the table. Little drumettes, the bottoms wrapped in aluminum foil. Triangle sandwiches, bits of cucumber sticking out. Juiceboxes, lining the tablecloth like a little army.

The cameraman stands by the door, shuffling his feet, feeling like an intruder.

Oh gods. There is a kid staring at him.

He avoids eye contact.

Antilochus comes back from wherever he went off to.

“Uncle Antilochus!” the kid exclaims, and jumps on him.

“What’s up, kiddo? Having a good time?”

The cameraman watches them interact wordlessly. He doesn’t have Antilochus’ charm with other members of the human race.

“You came to my party!”

“Sure did. How old are you anyway? Forty-two? Forty-three?”

The kid giggles. She glances at the cameraman. “Uncle Antilochus, is that your boyfriend?”

Antilochus wrinkles his nose. “Girl, please. Love is gross!”

The kid matches his expression. “Gross!”

Then Antilochus turns back to the cameraman, grinning in mischief.

Someone arrives to call the birthday girl for cake-cutting.

“You alright?” Antilochus asks.

“Yeah,” the cameraman admits. “I just … I’m scared of children.”

“Don’t worry,” Antilochus says, and winks. “I’ll protect you.”

The rest of the party goes by in a blur.

At one point Antilochus brings the cameraman to meet his dad, but old Nestor takes one look at him and grabs a broomstick.
“Get out of my house, you fucking paparazzi! Out!!!”

---

“Should’ve warned you,” Antilochus, regretful, later on. “He can smell cameras a mile away.”

“Paparazzi?” the cameraman questions, confused.

“He used to be a famous boxer,” Antilochus explains. “Won the championship three years in a row. He has a room just for his belts.”

They sit on the porch steps, sipping from soda cans.

“You didn’t get into boxing?” the cameraman asks.

“I tried. But it wasn’t for me,” Antilochus admits. “Besides, we’ve already got pros in the family. Two of my brothers won the championship. So there wasn’t that much pressure on me to carry the title.”

“So … how did you end up part of Achilles’ crew?”

“It was always the four of them,” a voice booms from inside the house.
“Him, Achilles, Patroclus, and the other kid who died.”

“Dad! Automedon went to the Olympics!”

“Sure, that’s what they tell you.”

Antilochus shrugs and gives the cameraman a what’cha gonna do? kind of look. “My dad played cards with their dads,” he explains, sideline commentator.

“And then those two ran off into the sunset together. I tell you, when that happened -” Nestor’s face pokes out of the window next to the porch, grumpy. “It was the talk of our pinochle group! Spread like wildfire, it did.”

“Yeah, because old people have so much going on in their lives.”

“You’re one to talk!” Nestor barks. “Already in your twenties without a real job or a real education.”

“What are you talking about!” Antilochus objects. “I’ll have you know, the pajama industry is a thriving one!”

Antilochus sits on the porch and argues with his dad through the window, and there’s something comical about that wrinkled face sticking out to snap insults at him.
The cameraman catches himself smiling.

Eventually, Nestor gets over his hatred of cameramen and comes out to sit with them, bringing sliced fruit on a plate.
“So what are you gonna do?” he questions.

“I don’t know,” Antilochus huffs.

“Feeling left out, weren’t you? All your friends making something of themselves.”

“I do make something of myself.”

“A real nuisance!”

Despite the bickering, it’s clear Antilochus can relax here. Surrounded by people he loves, hidden fears kept at bay. The cameraman wonders what that feels like, but it seems to be contagious. They finish their soda cans and listen to the party dying down. Night falls and the lights inside the house are switched on, then off again as the family goes to bed.

There are fruit trees around the house, and he can smell the scent of fig leaves, heady and spicy.

Antilochus scrunches up his soda can. “Come on,” he says, getting up and offering his hand.
“I want to show you downtown Pylos! There isn’t a whole lot to do around here … but we can still have a nice night out!”

The cameraman looks at his hand, the lines on the palm criss-crossing in the middle. A camera lens would have captured it beautifully. But it’s the naked eye that can see all the details. And it’s his skin that can touch skin and feel its warmth.

~~~

It’s a warm, breathless night.
Antilochus borrows a motorbike from one of his brothers and they rattle through long roads surrounded on both sides by fields of wheat.
The wind blows through his hair, looking over Antilochus’ shoulder at the black silhouette of the hills and high above, in a circle of clouds, the harvest moon full and bright. Its light reflects on the clouds - a quiet sort of beauty.

The revving of the engine fades to a buzz in his ear, Antilochus’ shirt soft under his hands, his torso solid and sure.

Stalks of wheat wave at them, the wind parting the fields like the Red Sea.
Nothing ahead but the road.

He could fall asleep like this, close his eyes and pretend he’s in a dream, for the road seems to go on forever and ever.

Then slowly, winking into appearance, the lights of the town.

~~~

They leave the bike outside a shop lot and head into the streets, taking in lungfuls of coastal air.
Downtown Pylos is by the water, a small dock with a few fishing boats -
And even this late, the town is alive.
Restaurants are open, lively music coloring the air.

And over there, in the town square -

“We used to wait for every harvest,” Antilochus says, pointing out the canopied stalls. He takes the cameraman’s hand and leads him over, a fair of sorts, locals lining up to shoot targets for fluffy prizes.

There are different games. Different vendors selling food.
Candy floss in mint greens and powder blues.
Sticks of peppery meat, smoke swirling from grills.

There’s a large pool of water, little fishes swimming. A kid’s game.

Antilochus sees a fish with blue and red spots. His eyes go wide as saucers.

They’re given small nets to catch the fish, but the bastards are slippery.

The cameraman gets a crazy sentiment in his head.
Win him one, he thinks.
He surges onwards, the net clutched in his hand with determination.

It’s a silly compulsion.
If he can win Antilochus a fish.
It might not be worth much but it’ll put a smile on his face.

He tries, and tries, but does badly with the net.
At the last second a fish wriggles through the plastic. It’s not the one Antilochus wants, but it’s better than nothing.

“You almost got it! Haul it in, cameraman!” Antilochus eggs him on.

He flips the fish into his net, and gets ready to collect his prize.
It’s nearly in his grasp.
And then -

“Oh shoot,” Antilochus goes, and slaps his forehead. “Ahhh. So close!”

Almost.

“Well.” Antilochus looks at him, and there’s that smile.
He didn’t have to win anything to put it there, after all.
It takes him a second to think about that.

“Like they say, it is only a paper moon. Maybe it is only a paper fish,” Antilochus states.

Maybe it’s only make-believe.

Whatever’s going on here.

Maybe when the summer’s over, and autumn sheds its leaves, he’ll know for sure.

But his hands are empty, he can only see with his eyes. Right now, Antilochus seems to be the only thing he can see. Taking the camera away didn’t seem to change that at all.

He doesn’t want it to be make-believe.

He doesn’t want that at all.

~~~

They go out onto the water in a fishing boat.
The moon swells over their heads, illuminating the surface of the sea like silver on oil.
The boat rocks backwards, forwards, a nursery rhyme.

“The sharks come out to feed at night,” Antilochus observes.
He raises an eyebrow at the cameraman. “You scared of sharks?”

He’s not scared of anything. Not now.
Even if dorsal fins emerge from the water, circling them when moonlight wanes, he’ll hardly take notice.
Everything is too awake around them.
He’s never been someone who’s good with words, but just like a still scene, just like a painting - they don’t need any.

He’s never felt more at home in a town full of strangers.


The clock ticks in the hall. Like a beetle.
He’s lain awake so many nights, back when they had to squeeze in his childhood bed together. Nanook of the North smiling at them from the wall.

“He looks cozy,” was the first thing Patroclus had said.
And they’d laughed, even struggling for space on that teeny mattress, shifting around like wooden blocks in a puzzle.

Tonight they had a meatloaf. Because it’s the only thing Patroclus knows how to cook well. And it’s only slightly better than Achilles’ own cooking, which comprises soup made from the packet and soggy rice. And only a little better than Peleus’ cooking, which is cigarettes and a glass of whiskey.

They had sliced zucchini and tomatoes on the side with a bit of cheese. And strong tea in tall glasses. Sitting there at the dinner table, his fork scraping against his plate, and their reflections in the dark kitchen window - he thought about how he would have found it excruciating as a younger man.

How twenty-year-old Achilles would have ached to get out of here, out of the mundane; away from homemade dinners and china plates, from dogs barking outside and cicadas chirping in the grass.
Even then, tired and full, he couldn’t give up hope that his efforts would be fruitful.
That somehow, the documentary will take off, and it’ll put his name on the map.

Everybody wants their share of glory. Even if it lasts only a moment, then burns out like a match taken to paper.
But he’s not unhappy here. Not like he was at one point in his life.
His father didn’t press him, and he didn’t bring up the topic of money at the table.

Now, eyes wide open in the dark, listening to Patroclus’ quiet breathing -
Maybe they don’t have everything that he wanted them to have.
Maybe it’ll be years before they get there.
Maybe they’ll have to move back here after the documentary flops, brave his father’s knowing look.
But nobody has told him he must give it up, this childish dream of making movies. And he won’t.

“Still awake?”

He turns, so that they’re face to face.

Patroclus chuckles. “You never could sleep in this bed. Maybe we should get the other one out and squeeze in again.”

“It’s the mattress,” Achilles says. “It’s just too soft.”

“Hmm.”

He thinks Patroclus went back to sleep, for a second. But some part of him comes loose.
“What if we have to live here again?” There it is. The fear.

The fear of admitting defeat, the fear of failure, the fear of going backwards in time.

But their rent can’t go unpaid forever. The bills from the bank, glaring at them every time they unlock the mailbox.

Patroclus doesn’t say anything for a while.
“Your father wouldn’t say no.”

“I know he won’t. But it’s …” It’s what?
“I know you like it here,” he tells Patroclus instead. “It’s home. And dad is growing old, and lonely without the other old guys to play cards with.”

Patroclus snorts. “He’ll be alright. He’s tough as a leather boot.”

“And when he’s gone, we’ll go to the funeral and think, oh, how much time we could have spent with him -”

“Don’t be silly,” Patroclus replies. “We can’t possibly know that. Besides, I think we’d drive him crazy. What’s really on your mind?”

“It’s just - by now -”
By now. By now. Like some unwritten rule, some expectation set by higher powers.
“By now, you should have gotten everything I promised you.”

“And what exactly did you promise me?” Patroclus asks, amused.

What indeed?

“What if something happens? What if one of us gets sick? I’d have to come back here and beg my old man for money.”

It’s just a stupid camera.

Patroclus’ tone is gentle. “You’ll pay him back.”

“How can I?”

“When you submit the documentary. It’ll be a hit.”

“How can you …” They’re too old to believe so blindly.
“You have to be realistic about these things,” he gets out.
“We can’t go chasing rainbows anymore, honey. I can’t run the film club forever. Sooner or later, the funds will dry up. We’ve put all our hopes on this one thing -”

“Which is a good thing,” Patroclus insists. He sits up, adamant.
“It’s a good thing, because you love what you’re doing. You love it so much you made us camp on the fucking beach every night and convinced an entire cast and crew to do it too. You think those people signed up for this project on a whim? You think they’re blind? We can see how much of yourself you put into this, your heart, your soul, and we’re all in it with you because we know it’s a worthy endeavor.”

Outside the window, the moon is shielded by clouds.
“You once said to me that you can only survive doing what you love. Maybe that’s why all of them are in this too. Everybody wants to survive.”

He said a lot of things, in his day.
But he nods, and puts an arm around Patroclus so they can lie snuggled up in the room he grew up in, the past so close to the touch. But it’s not the past, he has to remind himself. He’s Achilles and he makes movies. This is the here and now.

“Don’t you want to watch it so bad?” Patroclus asks. “I know I do.”

He does. Fuck fame and fortune, he wants to watch the documentary he made. And he wants to watch it with everyone who made it with him.

“Besides,” Patroclus continues, pressing his cheek against Achilles’ shoulder. “You know what will happen if this crashes and burns.”

“What?”

“I’ll divorce you and take all your money.”

He laughs, and pulls Patroclus flush against him for a kiss.


Nobody eats dinner at two a.m. But even at this hour, the food court isn’t empty.
Fluorescent lighting. Plastic chairs.
There should be nothing inviting about the place, but nobody seems to think so. The cameraman looks around him and observes the people sitting at other tables.

There’s a lone man reading a newspaper. An old couple in the corner, the wife fussing over the husband’s food.
He eats.
Antilochus eats.
They hear the frying pan from one of the stalls sizzling.

“Have some more chicken,” Antilochus says, and spoons some on his plate.
He stares at the crispy skin, golden-brown.

“I didn’t set out to model pajamas,” Antilochus admits, after a minute. He takes a sip of coffee, nonchalant.
“But it was something to do. I had to move to Troy to do it, right by the university. Dad was happy, he thought if I took classes, I would snap out of it and go to school. But a year passed. Another year. Several years. And I’m still where I started. Too afraid to move up the rung. Too afraid to pursue something else. Pajama models don’t become anything else, you know. Once a pajama model, always a pajama model. Of course there was my friend who switched to socks, but that's a rare case. And look at me -” Antilochus lifts a leg. “I just don’t have the ankles!”

The cameraman snorts.

“So I was stuck in a loop. And even worse, I didn’t really care.” Antilochus sighs. “Everybody tells me I should care. That I should want more out of life. But … what is it I’m supposed to want? Can anybody tell me?” He looks at the cameraman. “Can you tell me?”

“No,” the cameraman shakes his head. He doesn’t know either.

“But apparently it’s wrong to just keep doing what you’re doing. And it’s also illegal some places to wear pajamas in public. How do you feel about eating dinner with a hardened criminal?”

The cameraman laughs over his roasted chicken.

He knows what Antilochus is talking about. It’s not like he would know what to do with himself if someone told him he can’t be a cameraman.

“Do you think I’m crazy?” Antilochus asks, reluctantly.

Sometimes. But in his own way, he’s perhaps the most sane of them all.
The only one who isn’t floating in outer space.
He’s just a guy who likes life, who thinks the world is good enough for him. Maybe he already has that thing everybody else seems to want, seems to spend their lives searching for.

The age old question.

“Is it lonely being a pajama model?” the cameraman asks, teasing.

Antilochus smiles at him.
“I can’t say the present company’s too bad.”

Chapter 11: Week 15

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“How many photos do you think is enough?”

“You can never have enough photos.”

“Hmm, let’s see. Non-smoking. No pets. Set preferences to within 25 kilometres.”

Fresh coffee beans rattle in the espresso machine. The shop is filled with the aroma of their latest blend, woodsmoke, honey, tobacco … whatever it is coffee aficionados pick up on. Briseis can’t tell, especially slumped in her seat behind the record player, eyeing the two men in the corner table over her sunglasses.

“Ma’am?”

She startles, seeing the barista lean over her with her order.
“Shh!” she slides down in her seat, not wanting to be noticed.

“Er … why are you hiding under the table?”

She searches, eyes landing on his name tag. “Quiet, Ahmed! Are you trying to give us away?”

“... I’ve got your cappuccino,” Ahmed the Barista offers lamely.

“Shush!” She drags him down next to her, and takes a sip of her coffee. “This is good!”

“Why are we whispering?” Ahmed the Barista asks, confused.

“Okay, go away.” She shoves him away.

Her attention returns to the men she’s been surveilling for the past hour.

“How’s that?” one of the men asks, leaning over his partner’s shoulder.

“Hot.”

“What should we put in the About Me section?”

“Hmm … How bout, easygoing city boy, loves traveling, Virgo.”

“... No …”

“Fine. How about, just looking for the Jim-Cupboard to my Pam-Cupboard?”

“Lame,” the second man supplies.

“Ok. Looking for a fine piece to lie there while I display all your trophies?”

“... Hmm …”

“Like it?” the first man asks, excitedly.

“That seems bold, even for www.We’veGotYouCupboard.com.”

“Come on, man. Help me set up this profile.”

“Okay, okay.” The second man starts to ponder. “Right, let’s do this: I know I’m not much to look at. But I’m sturdy. I could use a little sanding down, but that’s why I’m hoping to find someone who will take care of me. Everybody comes on here for a reason, and mine is to find love.”

“Straight to the point, nice.”

Briseis seethes. How dare they. How dare he.

It’s another half hour before the men finish up on their computer and prepare to leave. She sighs, arranging herself behind a potted plant, when -

“Oh, ma’am! Did you want a biscotti with your cappuccino?” yells Ahmed the Barista.

One of the men turns round and catches her right in the act.

“Shit,” she mutters, cover blown.

“What are you doing here?!” Diomedes strides over to her.

“What does it look like?” she shrugs, playing innocent. “I come to visit Ahmed all the time!”

“I don’t know her,” Ahmed the Barista corrects. She glares at him.

“Were you spying on Deiphobus and me?” Diomedes demands, hands on his hips.

“Well, what were you doing hanging out with a Trojan, anyway?”

Diomedes smirks. “A Trojan? You mean, someone other than you?”

She turns pink, and curses her own skin. “Whatever.”

“Awww, is Briseis friend-jealous?” Diomedes asks, a shit-eating grin taking up his whole face.

“Shut up. I don’t even like you.”

“Deiphobus is really cool, you know. He builds furniture too and he’s never mean to me like you are.”

“Fine! So go around with some carpenter hunk! I don’t care! I’ve never cared!”

Diomedes snickers. “Oh, I don’t know. I kinda like it when you’re mean.”

“Gross.”

You’re gross. I can’t believe you did this! I was gonna tell you about the cupboard business in my own time.”

“Why are you selling cupboards anyway?”

Diomedes shrugs. “To raise money, right? We got the cameraman his new camera but now we’re out of all the other funds. What else am I supposed to do, sell my body?”

“Good thinking. I’ll go contact the university’s medical school and tell them I’ve got a fresh corpse!”

“Looks like I’ll have to write an obituary for your integrity.” But he winks at her, and they walk out of the coffee shop together into the Trojan sun.


They’re having lunch out on the set, the crew passing around plastic containers of pasta salad. They’re in the middle of filming a battle scene, and Antilochus has been running around the whole afternoon touching up everyone’s special effects makeup.

“We’ve run out of fake blood.”

“Use ketchup.”

“The extras hate that, you know they do. Besides, the people at the supermarket are starting to give me funny looks.”

The sound of a plastic packet crinkling catches Antilochus’ attention. A long whoosh as cornstarch is emptied out into a large salad bowl. Machaon the medic coughs as cornstarch rises in the air and gets everywhere. Then the popping open of a cap, and the clink of a glass bottle as syrup is added to the mixture. Stirring, stirring, the wooden spoon tapping against the bowl. And red food dye, carefully upturned, the drops landing in white like a nosebleed in snow.

“Give me your hand,” Machaon says, and Antilochus offers his hand. Then Machaon lets out a savage cry and splashes the mixture all over Antilochus.

“What the shit!” Antilochus exclaims, drenched. “You Carrie-d me!”

“Oh, this is just the beginning,” Machaon mentions elusively. He carries his bowl out onto the battlefield and starts anointing the masses with blood.

“People are gonna look at us and think we worship Satan,” Antilochus mutters. He runs over to the cameraman, grumbling about his ruined pajamas.

They sit on their bench to enjoy the break.

“Did you know Hitler’s last meal was spaghetti?” Antilochus asks.

The cameraman shakes his head.

Antilochus jerks his chin to indicate Achilles high up in the director’s chair, twirling spaghetti around his fork. “See the connection?” He snickers.
The cameraman can’t help but laugh with him.

~~~

Patroclus can hear the canvas tents flapping in the breeze. The seagulls call out to each other, and he wonders what they’re saying. Little moments like this. A satisfying day of filming. He stands ankle-deep in the sea brine, froth turning white around his feet, the sludge and the seaweed and broken seashells digging between his toes.

It’s a comforting feeling, like running fingers through hair or watching car windows fogging up on a misty night. The sky is lilac, and the sun is but an orange dot winking out of sight. He clutches his paintbrush in his hand and adds the finishing touches; why they’re called finishing touches he doesn’t know, because he’s never finished.

When he looks back on the work there’s always something missing, something he could have done, some new perspective that would have made the whole thing better. But that’s what painting is all about, and filmmaking, and scriptwriting, it’s never done, it’s never perfect. To chase perfection is to chase a soap bubble, iridescent in the daylight, gone before he knows it.

He stops chasing, and starts living.
His watercolors may run in directions he doesn’t want them to go, but in the end the paints mix and what he has before him is a sunset; it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t do the real thing justice, because the real thing is what he had, eyes peeled, breath bated. The sky goes dark and he smiles to himself, content.

“Hey, babe.” He doesn’t hear Achilles through the sand, but doesn’t even have to turn around, a hand on his shoulder and a kiss on his neck.

“There’s a moment,” Patroclus says, stepping back to reveal his canvas. “All gone now.”

Achilles eyes the (un)finished work. “Beautiful while it lasted, wasn’t it?”

“Aww, shucks.”

Achilles laughs. He’s at his most carefree, a sentiment that doesn’t last long but is beautiful while it does, just like the sunset. Maybe it’s that they had a good filming day. Maybe it was the spaghetti. Maybe it’s the script, typed and finished, the colorful post-it notes ripped off and left to stand on its own.

“Especially since the wind will come and knock the whole thing in the water,” Achilles points out.

“Ah, I’ve lost paintings to worst,” Patroclus replies, but grabs his canvas anyway. He slips his other hand into Achilles’ and they walk along the shore, unsteady on their feet, sinking in the sand.
“Wait,” he says.

Achilles turns to him with a question in his eyes.

“Let’s stay a little while.”

He can’t remember the last time they did this, but the memories suddenly rush back, starlit images of the two of them on a pier, alone in the dark, and a star called Sirius, and he can’t tell which one of them said it, but it had been what the locals called a dog day, hot and stifling. And in the midst of the heat and in the midst of the night, Achilles had taken his hand and pressed his lips to the palm, and said “So you are marrying me when summer ends?”

When summer ends. When summer ended. The season of scorching heat had gone to sleep, and they began their new life in the chilly winds of autumn. That was how it went.

A slow wave crashes along the shore, gently sliding over their feet. He shivers at the cold and Achilles laughs, and pulls him into his arms, and laughs again. And that’s how that evening goes.


“I feel like romance is dead.”

“What, why do you say that?” Deiphobus asks, surprised. It’s a very un-Polydorus-like thing to say.

Polydorus flips through the pages of his copy. “I mean, come on. A slow, kindling love story in a Gothic mansion. And when the house is burning she sees him in the middle of the night and phew!” Polydorus wipes his forehead. “And then they’re reunited and the end, oh the end … you don’t get stuff like this nowadays.”

Deiphobus stares back, unmoved. “What about the wife stored in the attic? I bet you can still find that.”

“Guys, we haven’t finished the book! Don’t spoil it for us!” Briseis objects.

“Why are we even having a book club?” Diomedes grumbles.

“Because, the book sales go to our documentary budget.”

“But nobody came,” Antilochus sighs. “And we haven’t even gone on to Mr Rochester’s inner turmoil and how his dalliances in France have affected him emotionally. Is Adele his daughter? What does his patronage of her really mean?”

The others stare at him.
“... Antilochus … you actually … read the book?” Briseis asks in disbelief.
“Antilochus, you can read?” Diomedes adds.

Antilochus bristles.

~~~

“Our goal is to raise three thousand drachma. That will cover the costs for the remaining props we need to accumulate for upcoming scenes, food for the crew, etc. So far we’re at …” Polydorus glances at his ledger. “Twelve drachma.”

A collective groan. The cameraman sweeps the room, getting a shot of all the faces.

“How are we going to get three thousand drachma in less than a week?” Agamemnon raises the question.

“I’m glad you asked!” Polydorus exclaims.
“With all the tourists coming in to ride the last wave of heat, we’ve got a lot of single, lonely people mulching around. We’re going to auction off some dates! Give the people something nice to remember, eh?”

Silence.

“Wow. Guess he really took the whole romance is dead thing seriously,” Deiphobus mutters.

“If everyone will just write their name and put it in the hat!” Polydorus suggests.

Everyone starts to leave.

Polydorus looks distraught.

“Hold on!” Antilochus exclaims, and runs up to the front. The camera pans right, following him. He turns to the scattering crowd.
“We’ve got to do this, people! We’ve tried book clubs, bake sales, karaoke parties - but nothing has attracted the tourists! And they’re the main source of income for this beach! We need to step it up if we want their dineros!”

“What about the university?”

“Enough about the university. They’ve given us as much as they will. It’s up to us now! Do we want to help Achilles finish the documentary or not?!”

Hesitation. Murmurs and whispers, shuffling feet.

“I’m asking for your help!” Antilochus insists, looking indignant and determined and, in the camera’s eye, fucking beautiful. “We’ve been in this together since the beginning. Achilles and Patroclus are our friends, and even if the documentary sucks, we’ll look back on this and know it was the time of our lives. Are you with me or are you with me?”

There’s a brief silence, while everyone takes in his words.

And then Agamemnon strides over, writes his name down, and puts it in the hat.
Menelaus joins him.

“Ah, fuck it.” Diomedes goes over to put his name in. “You better bid on me, Briseis.”

“You can dream.”

At the end of the meeting, Polydorus’ hat is full to the brim with names.
“And uh … maybe not tell Achilles - he’s gonna blow his top off knowing we invited tourists on the set.”


The frying pan sizzles with oil as a few eggs are cracked, landing with satisfying bounce, the yolks jiggling. They’re pierced through and leak into a circle. A knife slices through a bundle of chives, the metal thumping against the cutting board.

Hector scrapes the herbs into the pan, and watches the egg mixture turn golden, accented with green. He flips the omelet over with expert precision, and when he cuts into the yellow flesh, the inside is soft and fluffy.

“Ta-da,” he grins.

“Woohoo!” Andromache cheers, and shoots the cameraman a smile.

The cameraman gives a thumbs-up.

“I did it this time!” Hector says. He’s tried and failed to make perfect omelets exactly a hundred and seventeen times. They have it on the scoreboard.

“My husband the chef,” Andromache proclaims proudly.

“Doesn’t the chef get a kiss?”

She leans over and plants a kiss on Dummy Hector’s ruined cheek.

“Hey, wrong Hector!” real Hector objects.

The cameraman gets an odd sense of contentment, like this is exactly where he needs to be. He doesn’t know how he got roped into filming an episode of Hammin' it up with the Hectors!, but it’s episode three and Hector seems to have found his mojo. He’s a lot more comfortable when he doesn’t have to talk to the camera, and the show instead focuses on the learning of technical skills.

Dummy Hector is the perfect mascot, sitting silently with his bandaged head, slumping over, just happy to be there. And they always get to eat after they film. The cameraman wishes Antilochus were here.

They set the table, pour the wine. Along with the eggs is tiropita with homemade pastry, filled with cheese. And a light walnut salad to refresh the palate.

Andromache fills everyone’s plates and sets a small portion aside for Dummy Hector.
“Everything going alright?” she asks, looking at the cameraman.

A flash of surprise fills him.
“Me?”

“Yes, you.” She smiles. “We were a little surprised when you volunteered to help us for the show.”

“Well … I’d like to get as much experience as I can. Wherever I can find it.” In truth, it’s just a nice little break. A side project, as you will. Operating the camera is his entire life, and it’s not often he gets to switch lenses.

“It’s pretty quiet here these days,” Hector observes. The cameraman notices that he doesn’t once look Dummy Hector’s way. He’s too busy enjoying his food.
“Wonder what the others are up to …”

~~~

“MAN FOR SALE!” Tickets are waved frantically through the air, passersby stopping to stare for a second, then going on their way.
“Come to our auction!!! We’re auctioning off human beings!!!” Antilochus jumps up and down. “Come one come all!”

“Hey, pretty lady. Wanna watch a show?” Diomedes asks a pedestrian on the beach.

“Ew.”

Diomedes shrugs, and moves on to the next person.

“This is stupid,” Menelaus sighs, and puffs on his inhaler. “People think it’s just a scam.” He goes off by himself, mind occupied by cheesemaking techniques.

Paris hesitates, then chases after him. “Hey, wait for me!”

“So do you think we should marry this other cheesemaker to divulge her secrets on Saint-Nectaire? We’re really stuck on Saint-Nectaire.”

“I think I’m confident in our skills,” Paris frowns.

“But she’s the best fromager in the village. Hers has won awards.”

“We can win awards.”

Menelaus pauses, hands in his pockets, deep in thought. “It could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Jean-Pierre -”

“You named our cheesemaker?” Paris asks, amused.

“Well, now he has a speciality, he needs to have a name,” Menelaus points out.

“What a name,” Paris smirks.

“He was born in France in the 17th century, but later traveled to Troy and found a passion for the mediterranean. This was the time Louis XIV prohibited foreign cheeses in France. So poor Jean-Pierre, torn between patriotism and a love for all things eastern, had to return and hone his skills in the traditional cheeses of his homeland.”

“... You gave him a backstory,” Paris says. He can’t stop grinning. Only Menelaus can surprise him like this and make him feel so fucking ecstatic.

“Well,” Menelaus says, going a little pink with self-consciousness. “Guess he kinda grew on me.”

“Menelaus and Paris! Go get ready for the auction!” someone yells at them from a loudspeaker.

“Did you put your name in?” Menelaus asks.

Paris shakes his head.

“How come?”

“Didn’t wanna steal all the ladies.” Paris waggles his eyebrows, earning a kick in the back of his leg. “Ow!”

“Wish I could skip the whole thing,” Menelaus admits, and shifts his feet.

“Really? Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. I guess the whole idea doesn’t make me feel all too great. It’s like getting the flu. I’m just … not good at that stuff.”

Paris frowns. It can’t be, can it?
He turns to Menelaus.
“Have you ever been on a date?”

Menelaus’ pink cheeks turn beet red. “... Of - Of course! What are you talking about … I definitely have.” He lies like he breathes. Not terribly well.

“Oh?” Paris raises an eyebrow. “What happened? Dinner? Movies? First or second base?”

“... Oh … we went out for ice cream. And then we … watched a … a play.”

“What play?” Paris quizzes, lightning fast.

Menelaus has to think about it. “ … A Raisin in the Sun.”

“Great play,” Paris whistles. “Did you like it?”

“Yup,” Menelaus nods innocently. “Especially the part about the failings of the dried fruit industry.”

Paris has to hide his smile. Freakin’ Menelaus.
“And then what did you do?”

“Uh …”

“You’ve NEVER been on a date?!” Paris blurts out, grabbing Menelaus by the arms and shaking him hard.

“I was going to get round to it!” Menelaus protests. “I just have … other stuff to do first!”

“Like what?” Paris throws out, palming his face.

Menelaus smiles and shrugs. “Like I said, not great at it.”

They walk past the encampment, into town, standing by the sidewalk and watching the cars zip down the road. Warm wind blows against their faces, but it’s an overall pleasant day.
“Oh dear lord. Some middle-aged soccer mom is going to bid on you at the auction and be your first date.”

“I guess so,” Menelaus nods.

Paris nudges him. “You excited?”

Menelaus has to laugh. “I’m kind of past that by now.”

“Sure, sure.”

~~~

“Where is everyone?” Achilles huffs, storming into the tent. “I wanted to give a debriefing for tomorrow, and I couldn’t find the damn crew.” He stops, noting the silence. “... Hello? Honey?”

“In here.”

He steps outside the tent to the “bathroom”, which is really just a smaller tent. There’s an empty claw foot bathtub in the middle, and Patroclus is perched inside, scribbling furiously.

Achilles stands with his hands on his hips. “What are you doing in here?”

“Remember when there was that earthquake and your dad made us hide in the bathtub?”

“Mmhm.”

“Well, I went back there at times. To write. And, I don’t know, it just got me in the zone.”

Achilles scoffs. “The bathtub got you in the zone.”

“And also, I lost a lot of my writing by accidentally dropping it in the water.”

“So this is why you haven’t filled the tub, I see.” He sighs, takes off his shoes, and climbs in. They fit like two spoons.
“Thought you said you weren’t going to touch the script anymore.”

“This isn’t the script,” Patroclus replies. “Well, it’s a script. It’s for something else.”

“Are you going to tell me about it?” Achilles asks, resting his chin on Patroclus’ shoulder. The man is right, the bathtub is sort of hypnotic, in its own way. He could fall asleep here.

“In time, my love. In time.”


The carpet on the stage has holes in it. Polydorus’ toe gets caught in the loose thread, and he wishes he hadn’t worn sandals. What kind of savage wears sandals with a tuxedo, anyway? But he didn’t have time to go shoe shopping, he barely managed to rent the last auctioneer’s costume at A Shirt Won’t Hide The Hurt earlier in the day.

He doesn’t know where Deiphobus went, and part of him is sort of nervous to host this evening’s event. They’ve found an abandoned event hall to hold the auction. Paint is peeling off the walls, and it smells like bleach. The floor below the stage is practically giving way.

It’s gonna be a real shitshow, the voice in his head mutters darkly, and he struggles to bottle it up, takes a deep breath to soak in all the positivity.
What he inhales instead is stale air.
You look ridiculous.
Shut up!
As if you could raise three thousand drachma. You’re delusional and you’re going to disappoint everyone.
I … I am not delusional.
You are.
Am not.
Are to.
Not.
He’s busy bickering with himself when the doors open, a few stragglers filing in. Briseis and Antilochus stand dutifully by the door, welcoming the attendees and handing out programs.

He notices a hulking figure slouching backstage.
“Hey, aren’t you going to get ready? Oh, hi Agamemnon.”

Agamemnon, still in his day clothes, looks up in mild revelation.
“Hola.”

“Errr …” Polydorus grits his teeth, eyes swiveling back and forth to the hall, rapidly filling with people. Wow, people actually came. Calm down, Polydorus, calm down. He hopes Agamemnon gets the hint, but the man doesn’t lift a finger to change.
“Aren’t you joining us tonight?” Polydorus questions. He’s pretty sure he saw Agamemnon writing his name down.

“Nah,” Agamemnon voices. He’s staring blankly at the wall. “I feel fat today.”

“...” Polydorus’ tongue is tied in a knot. He digs his hands in his pockets. Foundations of Trojan Psychotherapy, First Edition didn’t prepare him for this.
“Whaaat. You’re not - you’re in great shape.”

“Ignore me,” Agamemnon mumbles. “Sometimes I just get these moods. Runs in the family.”

“Oh.” Polydorus dithers, stuck between not wanting to leave and not knowing what else to say.

“Nice top hat,” Agamemnon offers.

Polydorus beams. No one’s ever noticed his costumes before.

“You don’t have to stay,” Agamemnon continues. “I usually just listen to some music, maybe stretch a bit and then I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yup.”

Polydorus turns to leave, then stops as something takes over him. “For the r-record, I think y-you’re -” he starts to stutter, unable to believe he’s actually saying this. Foundations of Trojan Psychotherapy, First Edition didn’t prepare him for this, either. “I actually think you’re quite sexy, in a tie me up and tell me your safe word kind of way.”

Agamemnon’s expression lights up a little in amusement.
“... Clytemnestra.”

“What?”

“My safeword. It’s Clytemnestra.”

“....”

“It should be something you won’t yell out by accident, right?” he throws out, mischievously.

“... Ohmygods.”

Agamemnon cackles.

“You’re so bad,” Polydorus wheezes, and laughs along with him.

~~~

“Alright! Looks like we’ve got a full house! Ladies and gentlemen, please give a round of applause for our lovely auctionees this evening. And for yourselves, for coming out tonight and joining us in our fun! And it’s gonna be real fun, I promise you!”

The room pulsates with applause and an excited audience. It’s almost enough to make the surroundings less sad. Polydorus nods at Deiphobus, DJ for the evening; wavy synth pop echoes against the walls.

“First up, we’ve got Diomedes! Come on out, Diomedes!”

Deiphobus cheers loudly.

“Oh gods,” Briseis mutters nervously, craning her neck to see. They spent hours figuring out how to do up his necktie earlier, and her dad’s suit is ill-fitting on him, not to mention out of style. She can feel her palms getting clammy, hoping he’ll be okay. Polydorus is still rattling on in the background.

“Diomedes is a film student at the University of Troy! In his free time, he enjoys carpentry and writing obituaries for the local newspaper. He’s the guy who did Doris’ obituary, everyone! Yup, that’s him! Couldn’t ask for better!”

Diomedes walks out onto the stage awkwardly and stands in front.

“Give us a little twirl!” Polydorus insists.

“He hates that,” Briseis mumbles. Diomedes is so out of his element, she’s worried he’ll do something unexpected.

“Ain’t he fine!” Polydorus crows.

There’s a round of half-hearted applause.

Briseis’ eyes search the crowd, and come into contact with Antilochus. In that moment, they engage in what can only be called telepathy.

Antilochus stares back at her wide-eyed, and nods. He leaps onto the stage to save the night.
“That’s right!” he says, hogging the mic. “He’s so fine he puts my grandma’s china to shame!”

This makes Diomedes smile a little, and his face transforms when he smiles. Laughter ripples among the crowd, and all of a sudden the bids are starting.

“Fifty!”

“Fifty drachma to the lady in the red cardigan!” Polydorus yells, excited. “Do I hear a hundred! Come oooooon. A hundred! A hundred for Diomedes!”

“A hundred!”

“A hundred to the gentleman in the green hat! Do I hear two?”

This goes on for a bit, and Briseis knows she’s out of cash. She locks eyes with Diomedes, who’s relaxed a little and seems to be enjoying himself. He waves at her and rubs his fingers together in a money gesture, then points to himself.

She rolls her eyes, he sticks his tongue out at her.

“Five hundred drachma! Going once! Going twice!!! It’s finallllll!!! Lady in the red cardigan, you win!!!” Polydorus chants, so amped up he’s red in the face.

Diomedes jumps down from the stage to greet his date. “I’m worth five hundred drachma now!” he throws over his shoulder. “You can’t afford me anymore, Briseis!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Next up we have Agamemnon! Come out here, Agamemnon!” Polydorus waits, trying not to show how anxious he actually is. He lets out a sigh of relief when Agamemnon finally struts out, his usual confident self. Someone wolf-whistles.

“Agamemnon is a two-time finalist in the National Amateur Flamenco Competition held every year in Cordoba, Spain. He’s completing his graduate studies in the department of music and dance and wrote the thesis The Rise of Flamenco: Innovations in Spanish Guitar. In his free time, he enjoys reality television and hanging out with his brother.”

“Really?” Menelaus questions, backstage. He tucks his shirt into his pants, then realizes it’s caught in his belt. Then, it seems he has his shirt on inside out. He heaves a breath and does it all over again.
“I’ve got my backup inhaler …” he pats his pocket to make sure.
“And I’ve got my backup backup inhaler.”

He finds a place to wait his turn behind the stage, trying not to look at the spectators, the bidders, and who his potential date might be. His entire body is buzzing with regret, but that can’t be helped now. They’ve raised nearly twelve hundred drachma, a few more to go and the documentary will be safe.

“Menelaus!” Polydorus calls his name.
“Where are you, Menelaus, come on out! Let the ladies have a look at you!”

“Hi Menelaus!” Antilochus greets. “Isn’t he something!”

More wolf-whistles, and clapping, and cheering. Menelaus’ neck feels too stuffy under his collar.

“He’s not a snack, he’s dessert! Because you save him for last.” Antilochus winks.

Menelaus wants to die.

“Do we hear four hundred? Four hundred, the lady in the purple scarf! Five? Six? Seven! Seven hundred to the lady with nice eyebrows! Come on people, you can do better than this!”

Menelaus reaches for his inhaler, even though he doesn’t really need it. Sometimes he takes puffs just for comfort.

“A thousand! A thousand! Going once! Going twice!!! One thousand drachma, to Eyebrows! Amazing! Congratulations, Menelaus!”

Menelaus can barely register Antilochus and Polydorus crowding round him, enveloping him in an exhilarated group hug.
“This is it,” Antilochus whispers. “We’ve got the money.”

“Is Achilles going to kill us?” Polydorus wonders.

“Well, I mean … we’ll distract him with the dough!” Antilochus pats Menelaus on the back and guides him down the stage. “Here we go! Give the camera a wave.”

Menelaus doesn’t even see the camera, but he just about makes out the cameraman, who gives him a small, reassuring smile. Then he’s off.


“Hey, man. What’s up?”

There are cold french fries scattered on the sidewalk. It’s that kind of night. Menelaus looks up, jacket wrapped around himself. Forget the heat from before, it’s a windy evening.

“Well. Definitely not my self esteem,” Menelaus replies, and smiles.

Paris saunters over and stands next to him on the pavement.
“What’d I miss?”

Menelaus checks his watch, then remembers he doesn’t wear one. “I guess … she didn’t show up.”

“Who?”

“The lady with the nice eyebrows. My date.”

“I heard you raised a thousand drachma. Good for you, man. Didn’t I tell you? You charmed them all.”

Menelaus barks out a laugh. “Charmed them? Ha-ha, very funny.”

Paris nudges him. “Well, aren’t you ready?”

“Hmm?”

The other man gives him a steady look. “For your first date, Sherlock.”

“My first … but didn’t I just say …”

Paris gives a self-deprecating grin. “Yeah. I was Eyebrows.”

“.... You were -”

“I borrowed one of Polydorus’ Joan Crawford costumes! Nobody even noticed.” Paris rolls his eyes. “Observant lot, am I right?”

Menelaus looks at the ground. Then this means …

“Now you can have your first date with someone who actually knows you,” Paris voices. “I mean, if you want to. Unless you were hoping to go out with one of those women, in which case I’m really, really sorry, we’ll go out to the club and I’ll be your wingman for life I don’t care -”

“Paris,” Menelaus interrupts. “I would really, really like to go with you.”

Paris beams.

~~~

“So, what other antics did Jean-Pierre get up to in his travels through the mediterranean?” Paris asks, popping raisins in his mouth. They’re splayed over the top of his car, the breeze blowing empty soda cans over the ground, the city skyline below them.

It’s a quiet night, a perfect night.

“Well. In his youth he was quite the casanova.” Menelaus plays with a loose thread on the knee of his jeans, contemplating it.

“Tell me more.”

“He fell in love with this girl, Irene. They were attending a Greek tragedy and he locked eyes with her across the crowd. She was eating a wonderful Graviera cheese, and her excellent taste entranced him. They had a whirlwind romance, but alas, it was not to be. She was already engaged to this asshole from Athens, Kostas. Heartbroken, he found himself in bed after bed, room after room, trying to numb himself from the pain. Then he traveled to Albania, in search of a fantastic cheese called kashkaval. That’s when he met -” Menelaus trailed off. “I’m rambling.”

“Ramble away,” Paris insists, chuckling. “Seriously, dude. I like hearing you talk.”

“I don’t know where I get these weird ideas from, I just - I just daydream, I guess.”

“You’ve got a heck of a lot better imagination than I do. You know what I daydream about? Frogs.”

Menelaus bursts into laughter.

“Seriously. Frogs, or cars, or boring stuff like that. Yours is better. I want a look in your brain like a little television screen.”

“You don’t need a television screen, you’ve got me. I’ll tell you all about it,” Menelaus decides.

“Okay, it’s a deal.”

They shake on it.

Paris sighs and stretches out on his car. “Want more raisins?”

“Why raisins?” Menelaus asks, puzzled. Paris has bought bags and bags of them.

“‘Cause we’re going to watch the sunrise. And eat raisins. A Raisin in the Sun, right? Your first date.” Paris looks so proud of himself, Menelaus has to hold back his laughter.
“I’m only making it the truth!”

They’ve got hours until sunrise. They’ve got hours to talk.

“So, if this is my first date, how many has it been for you?” Menelaus questions.

Paris thinks about it, blowing out air so it ruffles the hair on his forehead. “I don’t know. Maybe the hundreds.”

“Oof.”

“But it’s not like I can remember their names. Or their faces. Jean-Pierre and I have that in common. In fact …” Paris trails off, hesitating as he ventures into the territory of personal stuff™. “I have a real problem with that sort of thing. I just don’t connect with people, you know? It’s like … I can’t be intimate with them or something.” He laughs it off. “I don’t know. Sounds stupid, now that I say it out loud.”

“Oh,” Menelaus says, softly.

“Can’t even remember the last time I was held.” Paris crumples up an empty raisin packet and tosses it.
“Which is pretty fucking lame -”

He’s cut off by a pair of arms wrapped tightly around him, the soft fabric of Menelaus’ jacket.
“Now you do,” Menelaus says, matter-of-factly, and leans his head against Paris’ shoulder.

They fall silent, and look at the city lights slowly winking out.

They’re both asleep by the time the sun finally emerges. Paris blinks his sleep-crusted eyes open and squints. He shakes the packet of raisins to wake Menelaus, who sees it and laughs. A raisin in the sun.

~~~

“So, casanova, how did your first date go?” Paris asks conversationally, later on when they’re walking back to the beach.

“Oh, I don’t know. Pretty good, all things considered. We saw a play.”

“Did you!”

“And then I bored them with details about the global dried fruit market.”

Paris cackles, and throws an arm around Menelaus.

“How was your night?” Menelaus counters.

“Nothing special. Crossdressed a little and hugged my best friend.”

“Sounds like any other night,” Menelaus agrees.

Chapter 12: Final Week of Filming

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It isn’t that Antilochus hates Mondays, it’s that Mondays hate him. He swipes a hand over the bathroom mirror, fogged from the shower. And himself, tired eyes and drenched skin and hair plastered to his forehead. The stream of the faucet greets his foggy head, cold water on warm skin. He wets his toothbrush. The bathroom begins to smell like soap bubbles and mint.

He didn’t get to sleep at all last night.
Thinking. He does a whole lot of thinking these days. It’s like he hasn’t had a million thoughts in a million years. And then they landed a rocket on Mars, two white-footed astronauts traversing a buzzy television screen - one step forward for mankind, and all that. It’s like that.

He feels like he’s been to the moon and back, that he spends his nights floating in a cloud of space dust, that there’s nothing tethering him to earth save for a picture of Bartholomew. Maybe that’s who he really is. Antilochus Nestorides. Pajama model by day, spaceman by night. And he can go anywhere he wants to go, and watch the planets orbit the sun. See? He knows astronomy.

His pajamas smell like saltwater, he thinks, pressing the fabric to his face. He puts on his favorite pair, blue-and-white stripes, and dries his hair and does all the morning things; puts the stained coffee pot on the gas stove, listens to the crackle of the flame, pours beans into a grinder, listens to them rattle.

He throws his towel in the laundry basket and hears all the morning things; a conversation outside about bread, and its properties - hmm, who knew, who knew? He hears the sounds of a camp bed creaking, and thinks, maybe people are making love in the morning, skin smelling of sand and sweat, hair like sea breeze. He lifts his shirt sleeve to his nose and sniffs; imagining it on himself.

He burns the coffee, and skalds himself pouring it from the pot.
Pain; what he wants more than ever is a mouth pressed to his hand, and soothing lips, something human to chase the hurt away. But the heat subsides and he’s left with coffee grinds all the way down the front of his pajamas, and the noises disappear; he’s left in a quiet tent.

Then the tent flap opens, and he pops his head in.
“Morning.”

Morning. Yes, it’s morning indeed. Or maybe it’s the middle of the night, and he just didn’t realize, because he didn’t get to sleep at all last night you see, and now his whole world is topsy turvy, he’s an astronaut at zero gravity and walks on the ceiling.
“I’ve been attacked by coffee,” he tells the cameraman, and pulls him inside the tent by the arm. “Come walk on the ceiling with me.”

The cameraman takes one look at him, and settles on his eyes, he always does that. It’s like he forgot, for a moment, what Antilochus looks like; and has to do it all over again, then it’s his eyes he remembers best. “Well, you’ll smell good the whole day.”

“Eau de arabica,” Antilochus laughs. The cameraman watches him laugh, mouth curling upwards at each peal.

Antilochus hates Mondays. No, Mondays hate him. But now it’s like calendars have ceased to exist, and it’s just another rainy day, and here the cameraman is and it’s beginning to storm and -

He watches the cameraman pour himself a cup of burnt coffee and drink it like it’s nothing, and his gaze wanders over to the picture of Bartholomew that guides his dreams every night.

He wants every day to be Monday. He wants every day with a side serving of rain. He wants to smell soap bubbles and mint and the sea, and hear the crackle of the gas stove and people making love when it’s still dark as twilight. He wants.
And he doesn’t know what he’s turned into, because Antilochus Nestorides is not one to want, life happens to him and he likes it that way.

The cameraman switches on his camera and readies his equipment, each one paid such meticulous attention - his hands work slowly but steadily, and seeing him do his work suddenly makes Antilochus feel naked as a newborn baby, because it’s the cameraman and he sees everything, ever the silent observer, surely he can see this too?

He looks into the camera, and for once has nothing to say. He can’t recall what scene they were supposed to shoot today, but they’re almost done, and Achilles is in a better mood than ever. But him, Antilochus. What’s happened to him, and the life he liked living?

“Hey, you okay?” the cameraman asks, causing him to start.

“Hmm?”

“You know, I was just thinking … we never did decide if it was an orange grove or an olive grove … in the script. Maybe we’ll claim it was a fig grove and watch the world go up in flames.”

Antilochus blinks at the cameraman for a moment. “Did you just … make a joke?” What’s that in his chest, what’s stinging so bad? What’s clawing its way out?

The cameraman frowns at him. “Are you crying?”

“What? No!” He touches his face. “My contact lens is stuck.”

“You don’t wear contacts …”

“Then maybe it’s pink eye.”

“Your eyes look just fine to me.”

“It’s not always visible to the naked eye! Pink eye! Aye?”

The cameraman gazes at him for a minute, laughing silently, and Antilochus notices he’s set the camera aside, so it’s just the two of them. And he can’t bear it if it’s just the two of them. He can’t bear it, and he hasn’t the words.

“Are you really alright?” the cameraman asks.

“Never better. There are people out there addicted to crack cocaine and I’m just addicted to cracking you up -” Gods, what the hell is wrong with him? Has he sired a child somewhere, because this is the kind of thing that would come out of his father’s mouth.

The cameraman laughs, out loud, this time, and reaches up and brushes the tear away. And glances at his hand for a minute, like it’s something precious, even if Antilochus will go to his grave claiming it’s contact lens solution.

“Let’s get something to eat before we brave Achilles,” the cameraman says, and he’s so comfortable in his skin, the way he only is with Antilochus, and - “How bout Un-Pho-Gettable? You said there’s nothing like hot noodle soup on a rainy day. And the coupon expires tomorrow.”

No one in his life has ever remembered that. No one in his life ever remembers the stupid things he says. He looks at the cameraman with something like awe. How many times have they gone to that restaurant together, plucking the basil and dividing it equally; and the cameraman always lets him have the extra lime, and he asks for his soup non-spicy and it makes Antilochus laugh because since when is it ever spicy? But the cameraman can’t seem to remember that, yet he remembers all the things Antilochus likes, that he’ll pick up the free newspaper outside the restaurant and peruse it for coupons, and walk instead of taking the bus so they can pass by the pet store and see the cute Samoyed puppy, but it must be gone now, yes, it must be gone.

He doesn’t like his life. He fucking loves it. He loves how the raindrops taste on his tongue, and the cool sea wind in his sleeves, and the way the whole town is cast in gloom under the grey clouds, yet couldn’t be brighter, couldn’t be clearer, like an overexposed photograph. He loves every hour, every minute, every second, and how the cameraman’s just there when he turns around to grin at the camera and say his stupid things.

He’s in love with the cameraman.

He takes a moment to savor the words in his mouth, a long, deep draw of a good ale, biting in its sweetness. And his heart, pounding, fading away, until it seems like he has no heartbeat at all, the world goes still and leaves him at zero gravity. He thinks he’s going blind.

“No to noodles?” the cameraman questions, breaking the silence.

Antilochus lets out a loud breath, and feels like he’s choking on air.
“N-noodles?”

“...” Looking at him again, one sweep over the whole of him and resting on his eyes.
“Antilochus -”

“Yes?”

The cameraman sees him. The cameraman always sees.

He walks closer, one step, and then two, some thick air making it harder to close the distance, like treading the floor of a swimming pool.
The salt breeze weaves through the cameraman’s hair and he wants to tangle his fingers in it.

Their eyes are locked, one step separating them, the sand blowing over their toes and the ocean waves drowning out the rest of the -

“Antilochus!!!” someone racing through debris towards them.

A pang.
Breaking their gaze is like ripping off a band-aid, and he hesitates too long.

“Where were you, we need you now!!!” Hands dragging him away.

His feet are dead weights, moving in the direction he doesn’t want to go. He stares back at the cameraman, figure growing smaller and smaller in the distance.

Then it begins to drizzle again, and something in him clicks.
“Hold on,” he tells the interloper, pulls away.

He jogs, he runs, he breaks into a sprint.

He reaches the cameraman just as he’s about to turn away.

He tangles his fingers in his hair, and it’s soft, like cotton, like cotton threads, like cotton pillowcases and the fluff inside the pillow, and he just likes pillows, okay, but it doesn’t matter, because he closes his eyes, and -

They meet in an eager smack, and he barely has time to register that he’s kissed the cameraman’s nose, only that elation bubbles up like fizz in sodapop.

“Oops!”
He cackles, the laughter coming out of him free like the wind. “Wrong place!”
And he runs away, heart drumming in his chest to match the pounding of his feet against the sand.
“I’ll get the right one next time!” he screams over his shoulder.

He doesn’t think the cameraman will answer, and doesn’t dare to look. Maybe it’s a mistake, a big, big mistake, because it’s not like he’s the best judge of how things work out, maybe it was all in his head, and he’s starting to regret it now, yup, he’s starting to regret it -

“I’ll be waiting!” the cameraman calls back.

He glances over his shoulder and meets his eyes once again.
And his face is hurting so much, his feet, his chest, his arms, his legs, all of him hurts with an oncoming sunrise.

~~~

When Patroclus sees him sitting outside the tent, they lock gazes. The other man knows him so well.
What. Did you do.” Hands on his hips, face stern, but it doesn’t last for long, he cracks a smile and takes a seat next to Antilochus, bumping shoulders, waiting for him to come back to earth.


Polydorus wakes up on the third ring of the alarm clock. There’s a spot of sunshine outside, and he hovers by the window, baffled - didn’t he set the alarm for earlier?
He makes his bed while he waits for the hot water to come on.

“Dei.” Three knocks on the door.
Soft snoring. He goes in and turns Deiphobus over so he doesn’t aggravate his sleep apnea.

The place is perfectly tidy, yet he still gives it a wipe down with a damp cloth, dust collects, what can you do? He passes by Paris’ room. The door is cracked open, and he’s surprised to find the bed empty. Paris is usually up all night and asleep all morning. Hmm. Some part of him itches to go in and clean up the mess, but never mind, just a few crumbs won’t kill anyone. Even if they will haunt him for the rest of the day.

“Oi.”

He jumps, not expecting Paris to be up and fully dressed, hair combed, smelling of dewdrops and deodorant in the scent Antihero. He glances at the clock, what the serious hell, it’s eight thirty.

“Y-you’re up.”

Paris shrugs. “Didn’t wanna waste the day.” His gaze turns wicked. “Find anything interesting in my room?”

Polydorus fights the urge to roll his eyes. Paris is more of an open book than he thinks he is. He won’t find anything, just dozens upon dozens of cheesemaking manuals, handbooks on the history of French cheese culture, and a grammar book and dictionary as the latest game expansion pack only comes in French.

It fills Polydorus with fond memories of going down to the arcade, waiting for their dad to finish up with his work conferences, and because Hector was too cool to hang out with them at that age. But he doesn’t think Paris would believe him if he mentions it’s great he’s found so much joy in the cheese game.

Paris is looking at him expectantly, and he sighs, it’s always been like this. He doesn’t get it, he’s the youngest. It’s not like he doesn’t have things to do while they go off building cupboards, becoming acquainted with mannequins, and befriending asthmatics.
But the others have always depended on him in some way, if he were to leave, he thinks the house would collapse. He pads down to the kitchen - Paris follows him like a loyal Pomeranian, which he hasn’t done for years now.

Thank goodness he didn’t throw out the stale bread last night, he thinks. He whips up a custard and lets the slices soak. Then he heats up the pan. They watch butter melt slowly.

“Polydorus …?” Paris voices.

He sets the bread in the pan and flips it over, golden brown. “What is it?”
Paris hesitates long enough that he looks up from his work. “What?”

“Do you think you could … teach me how to … cook? I mean, not like Hector or anything, just simple meals, really, to get me through the week. And how to do the laundry, do you separate the whites from the darks, and how do you know if the red shirt won’t turn everything pink? If you spill wine on the carpet what do you do? And if you bleed on the carpet?”

“... Why are you bleeding on carpets?” Polydorus croaks out, because he doesn’t quite know what else to say.

“Also, how do you manage money?”

His head is spinning. He almost burns the toast, but turns the stove off in time. His hands are unsteady as he drizzles on honey and sprinkles cinnamon and finds the leftover berries in the refrigerator and throws those on too.

“Mmph,” Paris hums in appreciation, taking the first bite. “You weren’t even paying attention and you could still make it perfectly.”

“It’s French toast,” Polydorus says. “Not organic chemistry.”

“Yet no one can deny my chemistry with this toast.”

He has to sit down, because he’s not used to Paris being quite so polite.
“So what are you saying?” he asks.

Paris, growing up. He never thought it would happen.

“I want to make French toast,” Paris says, and looks deadly serious. “I want to iron my own shirts and make them look nice, and go out to dinners where the food is not enough, but it doesn’t matter because when I come home the fridge is fully stocked because I went shopping the day before. You know … stuff like that.”

Paris, a responsible adult. He never thought it would happen.

“Oh, Paris!” he leaps up, surging with sudden emotion, and envelops his brother in an embrace. Even though his heart is sinking too, because first comes Paris, then who knows, Deiphobus, and the house will be empty, it will be just him.

Secretly, he’s always wondered what it’ll be like to have the place to himself, maybe he’ll shower with the doors open and walk around naked and paint the living room black and have phone sex with strangers.

“Okay, okay, not so fast, I’m just starting out!” Paris objects, but actually … hugs him back. Maybe they’ll get along if they don’t live together, maybe they’ll have coffee on Wednesdays and talk about their lives. Maybe not. He’s jumping to conclusions.
“Well, eat up! I’ve got a lot to teach you,” he says happily.

~~~

He has to pick up milk, and the T-Mart downtown is having a 20% off sale on all things dairy.

He ends up staring at the cold aisle. Their brand is on sale, but the one on the right is cheaper. He feels eyes boring into the back of his head and quickly moves aside so the other customer can grab whatever he wants. The man hulks over him.

“Agamemnon?”

Agamemnon barely acknowledges him, only grunts a hello.

“You shop at T-Mart too?”

“I have to get Menelaus’ inhaler refills. And I saw they had a discount.”

“Well.” Polydorus gestures at the aisle. “So hard to choose, am I right?”

Agamemnon grabs a carton without even looking. “Goodbye.”

“Hey, wait!” He doesn’t know why it bursts out of him like that.
“Er …” He fumbles around in his shopping bag. “Do you want to use my rewards card?”

Agamemnon shrugs.

~~~

They end up walking in the same direction towards the bus stop. There’s a long, painfully uncomfortable silence, his shopping bag bumping against his side.
“So, uh … you have a safe word?” he blurts out.

Agamemnon’s magnetic eyes land on him.

Yikes. Shut up and change the subject, Polydorus! he scolds himself.

“Mmhm.” The man is tightlipped. Then he glances at Polydorus. “It’s important to have one.”

“Right.”

“In case things go too far.”

“.... and what are these things?” he questions, feeling his face heating up like a boysenberry in summer.

“Not as nefarious as you think,” Agamemnon shrugs. “A bit of strangling with guitar strings, some light roleplay … tame stuff, really.”

“Roleplay …”

“Oh, you know. I’m the flight attendant and you’re the CEO in first class. You’re the police officer and I’m speeding. I’m learning advanced calculus and you’re the disgruntled math teacher. The usual, etc.”

Polydorus thinks about this in silence. “But … why?” This is bizarre. He’s entered some sort of alternate reality, for sure. But the sidewalk keeps going on and he and Agamemnon keep walking together.

“I like power,” Agamemnon states, reasonably. “In day to day life, I mean. In private - well, that’s a whole different story, isn’t it? Who are we, really, behind closed doors?”

“You like to give up that power behind closed doors?”

“It’s taboo for me, a hidden desire, a guilty pleasure. Don’t you ever experience that sort of thing?”

Polydorus doesn’t say anything, but an image crosses his mind of his black-painted walls.

Somehow, their feet have carried them to the local coffee shop.

“Hi, Ahmed!” Polydorus greets, hearing the bell tinkle as they enter.

“Hi, Polydorus!”

“How’s your mom? Everything going alright with your charcuterie board business?”

“Oh, you know. Same, same.”

Polydorus nods, places his order, and turns around to find Agamemnon watching him in knowing amusement.
They find a table by the window with a view of the road and the tourists coming in from the beach, trekking sand everywhere.

“You can’t stand the thought of people not liking you, can you?” Agamemnon asks, and sips his coffee like he’s just asked about the weather.

Polydorus’ insides shrivel up. “Y-you don’t know the first thing about me.”

“It’s not to be helped. You can care about people, and who knows, maybe you really do care. But you can’t control how they see you. And that’s okay.”

“But it’s not, really,” Polydorus gripes, before he can stop himself. “It’s a shit feeling. It’s like … there are two of me, and they’re at war with each other. I can try, but I’m never really satisfied with myself, just like it kills me inside to pay 2 cents more for milk even though it’s the brand I drink anyway -”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Agamemnon shrugs. “It’s normal.”

Normal. Polydorus mulls over this. He doesn’t even really like coffee, he’s a tea person, but why would he order tea here when he has perfectly good leaves at home?
“I wish -” he gulps, not knowing how to say it out loud. “I wish someone would ask me what I want for a change.” And he feels guilty immediately.

“What do you want?” Agamemnon asks.

He stares at his cup. “Well, definitely not this.”

“Let’s go somewhere else. There’s a tapas bar up the street from here that I like to go to. They have flamenco nights on Thursdays and if you dance, you get a free drink. Anyway - how about a nice Sangiovese?”

Agamemnon is a guy who likes the finer things in life, yet appreciates a good deal. Polydorus finds himself smiling, and for the first time in a long time, excited.

~~~

“Ahhh.” He swirls ruby-red liquid in his glass and watches the legs settle. The bar is rife with the sounds of soft conversation, the bartender polishing the glasses, the tile counter smooth and cool under his hands. There’s none of that godawful elevator music they play everywhere he goes.
They order Spanish almonds, and ham on bread, and manchego cheese with tomatoes.

“You don’t have to talk about that stuff if you don’t want to,” Agamemnon points out. “We can just eat and have a good time. Or eat in silence. What have you.”

Polydorus laughs. “Can you really dance the flamenco?”

“I can dance,” Agamemnon huffs. “I’m quick on my feet. You’ve got to be, if you’re filming those battle scenes for Achilles.”

“Well, teach me sometime.”

“Come to the music and dance department. They have classes for beginners, and I’m always there.”

“Oh, I don’t know …”

“I don’t bite,” Agamemnon smirks. “You think I’m weird, but I’m really quite vanilla. Maybe with a hint of spice. Vanilla bean.”

Polydorus almost splutters on his wine. Then - “Why would you want to get to know me?”

“I don’t know. Why would you want to get to know me?”

Why are they here at all? But he’s enjoying himself, and Agamemnon is weird but he doesn’t really mind, in fact, he doesn’t mind at all. And something in him can sense the man isn’t the type to pretend to like him, or pretend to humor him, or any of those things. Maybe it’s even the start of something real.


“Is your back okay?”
He turns over so Patroclus can slather him in hot menthol ointment. Sitting in the director’s chair all day has really started taking a toll. Maybe he knows what Hector feels like, complaining about an oncoming threat of osteoporosis.

“We have the funeral games to film, and then that’s it.” He takes a deep breath. “That’s it.” One summer. Past. Where has life gone?

“Ah.” Patroclus combs through his hair. “First I must die.” And he crosses his eyes and flops onto the floor of the tent.

“Hey.” Achilles nudges him. “Knock knock. Hello.” He taps the side of Patroclus’ head, gently.

“Who’s there?” Patroclus demands, gruffly, eyes closed.

“Achilles.”

“Achilles who?”

“I killed Liz, and you’re next.”

Patroclus sits up so fast their heads bump together. “Geez! What are you, a 5-year-old or a 75-year-old man?”
But he laughs and rubs his forehead, and suddenly Achilles has an overwhelming urge to scoop him in his arms. “Don’t die on me, honey.”

“I might just have to! Those things you call jokes will have me rolling in the grave.”

The funeral games have him all nervous, like a glass on the edge of a table waiting to tumble. He wraps his arms around Patroclus and draws him in like a child. What’s going to happen to them after this? They’ve just about pulled through, and then it’ll be a rush to get everything sent in time for the festival, and then - and then.

He wants a whole lot of things. He wants to be a filmmaker, his name on the map. He wants a place for the two of them to live. And a script, for the next project. Those are all the things he wants, for now. They seem right at his fingertips. Just within reach, but not quite.

“What are you thinking about?” Patroclus whispers.

“Don’t know,” he whispers back, like they’re two kids sharing secrets at the back of the classroom.

“Don’t know?”

“Don’t know.”

Patroclus smiles at him, and he knows his thoughts are plain and clear across his face. “After my dad’s funeral,” Patroclus sighs, and moves to lie flat on his back, as though he can see the stars beyond the ceiling of their tent. “Well, everybody was there, weren’t they? And I thought to myself, one day when I’m gone, I’d like it to be like that. It’s the best case scenario. Your whole family turning up, and all your friends, they celebrate your life and it must have been a good one if so many people loved you.”

“I don’t like to talk about when you’re gone,” Achilles admits.

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not? You’re going first,” Patroclus insists, and it makes Achilles snort with laughter.
“I’m in charge of what goes on your headstone so you better not mess with me, darling.”

“Fine, fine.”

They lie next to each other on the floor and think about death, and everything that comes before.

“Ooh, can we have custard tarts at my funeral?!” Patroclus asks.

Achilles isn’t sure which funeral he’s talking about, the one on film or the one (hopefully) far longer down the road.

“Pastéis de nata. I love those,” Patroclus muses.

“You won’t be able to eat them, dear. You’ll be dead.”

“Hmph!”

~~~

He wakes up when the clouds are pink as cotton candy, and it brings to mind scenes from a carnival, popcorn, candy apples, music from a carousel. Maybe that’s what he’ll film next. A carnival. A circus. A spectacle.

He pokes his head out of the tent but all is quiet on the frontlines. “Going already?” Patroclus mumbles, still half asleep.

“Mmhm.” He plants a quick kiss on his hair and gathers all his equipment.

Patroclus sits up and scoots over to the edge of the bed. “Um, excuse me.”

“Can I help you?”

“I’d like another one of those, please.”

“I’m afraid I’m rather tied up here. Where were you thinking of having one?”

Patroclus taps his lips, demanding another kiss.

“Ah, it seems we’re out of stock. How bout right here?” He pokes Patroclus’ face.

“I’m not interested. It’s the lips or nothing.”

“The cheek?”

“You drive a hard bargain. But I’m not letting you leave until your mouth is on mine, sir.”

“Perhaps you’d better take it up with management.” And he drops all his stuff and gives Patroclus the kiss of a lifetime, until his knees are weak and his head giddy; until Patroclus goes back to sleep with a smile on his face.

~~~

He leaves the tent to find Antilochus pacing, pale as a ghost; “What are you wearing?” he questions, noting Antilochus’ ordinary shirt and jeans.

“Achilles, I can’t find the cameraman!”

“Hmm? Well, since we’re almost wrapping up filming I signed his form and told him he was free to go. It’s a little heartless to make him stay when the semester is already starting.”

Antilochus’ brows are scrunched up, trying to take in his words.
“What?”

“Obviously he has school.”

Antilochus’ eyes flicker back and forth. “Wait, what did you do?”

He doesn’t understand what the big deal is. “I can do the camerawork for the last scene, with a little help. The cameraman’s pretty much completed his internship with me.”

“Internship?! But where’s he going? Is he at the university?”

He frowns. “Don’t be silly, Antilochus. The cameraman is a foreign exchange student. Of course, he’ll be going on the next train to his home country.”

Antilochus’ eyes widen. “No, no, it can’t be true, it can’t!”

“You should have heard the earful I got from the department, keeping him for so long. He was only supposed to be here twelve or thirteen weeks at most.” Achilles sets down his equipment. “Here, help me carry some of this -”

“I need to talk to him! He can’t just -” What the fuck, is Antilochus tearing up? What is going on here?

“He can’t just go!” Antilochus exclaims.

“He has. Quit blathering, we have work to do.”

“But he didn’t … even … say goodbye.”

It makes him take a pause, really assessing the situation here. Maybe he’s missed something.
“Antilochus …”

It’s too late, the man is walking away, running towards the shoreline. The seagulls scatter as he screams his frustrations to the dawn.

Chapter 13: Final Week, Continued

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The sounds of lamentation fill the air. Sniffles. Sobs. Sorrowful songs. Other words that begin with the letter S.
The camera is wedged between Dummy Hector and a cardboard box left behind by careless tourists, the contents of which no one has bothered to inspect.
It captures a majestic frame of Achilles in full armor, leading the funeral cries before the body of his beloved.
“Patroclus - even in death I salute your name! As was my promise to you, here comes -”

One of the extras chokes on his own sobs, and Achilles lifts his head to glare in their direction.
“Cry harder.”
The extra, startled, nods and begins to weep.
Harder.”
The extra bursts into a full on wail.
“HARDER.”

“Quick, let’s get a close up of the mascara tracks of their tears!” Diomedes exclaims, and grabs the camera, making Dummy Hector slump over.
“Yeah, there’s a problem - I used waterproof mascara,” Machaon admits.
“Why would you do that?!”

Following a quick cut, Achilles continues his speech.
“Here is the body of Hector, whom I lay in offering to you, to be fed to the dogs -”

Hector picks Dummy Hector up and tosses it onto the sand by Patroclus’ body. “Rarh!”

“Ahem,” Achilles reminds him. “To be fed to the dogs -”

Andromache hurries over to the abandoned cardboard box and overturns it. A litter of Bernese Mountain puppies tumbles out, instantly crowding the Hectors and Patroclus’ body in a flurry of yaps and snorts.

The crew erupts in elation.

“Cut!” Achilles yells. “Cut!!!”
“Who ordered these dogs?!

Everyone points at Antilochus, who has been seated cross-legged on the ground, downcast the entire morning.

“Maybe I should throw me down with a bit more violence,” Hector suggests, and picks up Dummy Hector again, lifting him high above his head. “RARH!”
Dummy Hector lands with a thump, scattering the puppies. Patroclus’ body is shaking with laughter.

“Yeah, that - that just about does it, Hector,” Achilles states, rolling his eyes.

Patroclus’ body opens its eyes and lifts its head.
“Hey, how bout a curry for lunch?”
The crew murmurs in agreement, hearts lightening at the suggestion of a break.

“No. Go lie down over there,” Achilles orders.


A loud ding startles him from his copy of Camera Digest, signaling the upcoming arrival of the train. He’s been seated on the platform for nearly an hour, getting up every now and again to visit the vending machine. All around him, people go about their business; well-dressed men in grey suits, women in high heels click-click-clacking all over the polished floor.

He dips a hand into his plastic bag to retrieve a packet of peanut candies. There is a child staring at him. He quickly averts his eyes.
An announcement on the intercom pervades the silence, asking passengers not to leave luggage unattended. He glances over at his one bag, the faithful piece of canvas that has accompanied him across borders to get to his filming location.

As the train approaches the platform, he digs around in his bag for Achilles’ letter, handed over wordlessly to be taken back to the film department at his own university. He’s read it over and over again. The letter is more than praise, it is something else. It is the kind of gesture that will secure his future.

People are lining up to get on the train, and he follows suit, hoisting his bag over his shoulder, clamping his snacks under one arm and balancing the letter in the other. No one can deny he’s had a fantastic time filming Troy, like being on another planet, really.

Thinking about planets makes him think of Antilochus, and no - he promised himself he wouldn’t, it was always long odds anyway, even though that kiss in the sands - and the other man’s laughter …

He shakes his head hard. What do they know of each other? They don’t go to the same school, they don’t live in the same country … it was doomed to fail before it ever started. But he had told him he would wait.
He’d stood in the sands, grinning from ear to ear, believing, really believing …
No. It was no use.

Someone bumps into him; he sidles through the wide open doors of the train, finding an empty seat and collapsing in a defeated pile.
The train takes off.

He’s halfway through the letter when the announcement for their next stop blares through the speakers. It’s only then that he realizes he’s gotten on the wrong train.


“The dogs won’t eat him.”

I wouldn’t eat him,” Paris declares, hands on his hips, as they watch Hector writhing on the sand, snickering when one of the pups pauses to lick his face.

Menelaus takes a quiet puff of his inhaler. “I’m supposed to participate in the chariot race for Patroclus’ funeral games.”

“Have you ever ridden a chariot before?” Paris asks.

Menelaus purses his lips. “No.”

“Have you ever seen Ben-Hur?” Paris asks.

Menelaus grins. “Yup.”

“You’ll be fine!” Paris claps him on the back, hiding the clamminess of his palms. Gods dammit, he’s had the shakes all day. Every time Menelaus comes over to talk to him, he prays that the other man won’t notice. But chariot racing is a big deal, especially after all the money they spent on the equipment, and it’s easy to lose confidence. He’ll do whatever he can to distract Menelaus from the stress.

Taking a deep breath, Paris trains his eyes on the other man like a hawk.
I am a soldier.”

Menelaus’ expression flickers, surprised, but he doesn’t miss a beat.
Yes, who kills, for Rome! And Rome is evil!

Paris narrows his eyes. “I warn you …”

Menelaus lets out a breath, and steels his resolve. “No, I warn you! Rome is an affront to God! Rome is strangling my people and my country, the whole Earth! But not forever. And I tell you the day Rome falls there will be a shout of freedom such as the world has never heard before!” Nothing, nothing in the world can match the intensity of his gaze.

But Paris refuses to break it. “Judah, either you help me or you oppose me, you have no other choice. You’re either for me or against me!

Menelaus hesitates. He knows the following words will change their lives forever. “If that is the choice … then I am against you.

They hold their gaze for several moments, then break into laughter.

“That’s it, man,” Paris nods. “Just gotta channel your inner Charlton Heston and you can take life by the balls! Chariot race, Formula One, fuck, a three-legged sack race. And I’ll be on the sidelines, screaming your name.”

“And throwing sticks on the race track so people trip up and fail?” Menelaus grins.

“Sabotage is my middle name, baby!”

Menelaus laughs, and gives Paris a quick hug before going off to practice. It’s like sticking his finger in an electric socket, the way his whole arm buzzes and he wants to scream. He quickly pats his pocket, like he’s been doing the entire day, where the black velvet box has been sitting, warmed by his frantic touch.


Night falls. They look towards the heavens as the moon’s silver choir illuminates the sky. And then begins the feasting.

“Welcome to my funeral, everyone! Please, make yourselves comfortable! There are pastéis de nata in that corner over there! And a cheese fondue!” Patroclus ushers in the guests, excited.

“Damn, you know how to die in style,” Diomedes remarks.

“We thought it would be fun to have a thank you banquet for the crew as we wrap up filming. And really, everyone. Good work!” Patroclus rushes around, the hospitable host, making sure everybody has paper plates and cups of fizzy lemonade.
Someone switches on the radio, airy music wrapping around them like a sheet of sheer cotton.

“What’s up with him?” Diomedes questions, pointing at Antilochus on the floor with the entire fondue pot in his arms, dipping bread and salami and fingerling potatoes like nobody’s business, then protesting drunkenly when anyone tries to grab a piece.

“Antilochus, give me the damn salami!” they hear Agamemnon yelling.

“NO!”

“I just want one piece!”

“It’s my salami and you can’t fire it, only Achilles can fire it, which he did, so you can’t take it you WHORE!”

Achilles, within earshot, grumbles. “I didn’t fire anyone. I just signed a form.”

Agamemnon huffs and storms off.

Patroclus and Diomedes watch the ordeal wordlessly. “Well …” Patroclus mumbles. “It’s not a funeral unless someone gets called a whore!”

Antilochus tips his head back and downs the contents of the fondue pot, then promptly falls asleep in the corner.

~~~

“What are we supposed to do with these puppies?” Hector asks, juggling three on one arm and his food with the other.

“Who do we know who’s lonely?” Andromache wonders.

They both glance at Polydorus.

He starts under their prolonged gaze.
“Don’t look at me! I can’t clean the house, maintain the emotional welfare of an entire country, and be a single parent at the same time! I’ve got dreams, too!”

“Oh, Snuffles. I don’t want to let you go,” Hector sighs, and kisses the middle puppy on its fluffy head.

“That’s not fair, sweetie. You’ve got to kiss all three.”

Hector kisses all three.

“Is this not the most beautiful dog you’ve ever seen? Look at its eyes! Doe eyes. Look at its paws! Bear Claws. Look at its body! Furnado.”

“Let’s not get into hysterics, sweetheart,” Andromache states serenely, the only way she can divert the situation after the mannequin fiasco. As long as Hector is kept calm, the likelihood is high that he won’t spiral into insanity.


In the morning, they feed Hector to the dogs.
But his body is blessed with the oil of the gods, and the pups will not approach him.

“Antilochus, anoint him with rose oil,” Achilles commands.

Antilochus, sluggish from the night before, stumbles over and sprays Febreze in Hector’s direction.

“That’s not the one!” Achilles thunders, furious that his specific requirements have not been met.

Hector tries to sit up a little. “Antilochus, didn’t you get the coupon I sent you for the perfume store?”

“... They didn’t have rose,” Antilochus mutters, grudgingly.

“Rose who? Why not cucumber melon or winter candy apple? I prefer those,” Hector huffs.

“It says in the script that it’s rose,” Achilles points out.

“Like people can SMELL through the screen!” Antilochus roars, tossing the bottle of Febreze in a rage.

“Actually, we were thinking of providing the audience with a scratch-n-sniff card for the theater experience,” Achilles explains.

“This is a Smell-O-Vision documentary?” Hector exclaims, wide-eyed.

“Mmhm.”

“Well, damn! You know what scents I think we should include, the ocean, Achilles’ bonfire, the ointments in the medic tent, blood and guts -”

“The palace of Troy when it rains,” Achilles adds.

“Agamemnon’s shampoo. Seriously, he uses a hazelnut shampoo and it’s delectable.”

“I hate you all,” Antilochus mutters.

“Who crawled up your ass today?” Achilles snaps.

“Well, certainly not the cameraman! Because you fired him!”

“I didn’t fire anybody! I signed a form!” Achilles insists.

“How do you think it feels to have your dream man leave the building for good?!” Antilochus demands.

“Love DIES,” Achilles growls. “Look at my marriage! It’s in shambles!”

Was in shambles, darling,” Patroclus corrects, emerging from nowhere - the entire crew has gathered round to witness the argument.
“Shambles being the restaurant we held our wedding reception at.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Antilochus mumbles. “The chicken souvlaki was out of this world.”

“Antilochus, why don’t you just buy a train ticket and visit him at his university? Gods know you don’t have anything else to do with your time,” Patroclus suggests, reasonably.

“Wha - what! I have plenty of things to do with my time! I have a chariot race to win, for one.”

“You don’t win. Diomedes wins,” Patroclus points out.

“Huh? Nobody told me about this. I don’t even know how to drive a chariot!” Diomedes exclaims. “You’re kidding, right, guys? I don’t have to participate in the scene?”

Nobody answers.
“... Guys?”

Silence.

“Guys?!”


It’s quiet in the park, nothing but a few pigeons flocking around. He takes out the breadcrumbs he’s brought for them. The leaves are curling from the branches, brown and rust and withered.
They fall to the ground like abandoned kisses, blowing away in the wind.

A particularly rotund pigeon with a pattern on its back that reminds him of the constellation Cassiopeia swoops onto the bench and snatches the bread from him. “Hey!” he yells, waving his arm to ward it off.
It’s in the midst of this struggle that the figure arrives, clad in black like death itself.

“I didn’t see you there,” Paris admits.

Agamemnon smirks. “They never do.”

“Well … you got it?”

Agamemnon nods, looks around to make sure no one is watching, and slips a parcel from underneath his jacket.

“How much do I owe you?” Paris asks.

Agamemnon shrugs. He sits on the bench, gazing off into the distance.
“What exactly are your intentions with my brother?”

Paris snorts. “Are you seriously giving me the whole ‘if you hurt him I kill you’ speech?”

Agamemnon turns to him, expressionless, yet somehow still menacing. “No, what are your intentions for the cake? Were we thinking Victoria sponge or lemon chiffon?”

Paris’ head falls back a little, caught off guard.

Agamemnon raises an eyebrow. “You’re going to need a cake to celebrate when he says yes, right?”

“You - you -” Paris stutters. “But what about Helen?”

Agamemnon blinks, and stares off into nothing again. “Hmm.”

“I mean, she’s his wife …”

Agamemnon seems to contemplate it, though there’s no telling what goes on in that skull. He turns to Paris again, curious. “You said her name was Francine?”

“Helen!!!” Paris exclaims, appalled.

Agamemnon frowns, eyes flicking this way and that as he tries to think. “Never heard of her.”

“You know, Helen! Her ship launches a thousand faces? We’re fighting this war for her?”

Agamemnon looks blank. “War? I thought this was a documentary about the gruesome murder of a child, the intricate family dynamics surrounding it, and how the town slowly descends into madness in the aftermath of the act.”

Paris stares at him. “But … what about … all the fighting? The army? The battle scenes you were in?”

Agamemnon shrugs. “Well, it’s set during the Trojan war.”

Paris has nothing else to say. He has nothing else to say.

“Thanks for the stuff, man. And uh … Victoria sponge, if you don’t mind.”

“A man of class,” Agamemnon nods, and ticks it off in his notebook.


Grey light creeps into the confines of the tent.
Achilles cracks his eyes open, exhausted.
“Patroclus?”

The shade lingers at the foot of his bed.
“Achilles … you have forgotten me.”

Achilles scrambles up from his bed.

The shade of Patroclus steps out of the shadows, exactly the same as he was in life.
“When I was alive you gave me the world - now I am dead, you have not even buried me.”

Achilles sighs and sits up. “Why have you come here? Everything you asked, I will do. As I have promised you. But let us not speak of it. Let us savor whatever time we have, in each other’s arms.”

“Cut!” Diomedes grins. “Boy, it’s so good to say cut!”
Behind him, Briseis snaps the clapperboard. “That was good! Stand by!”
Diomedes nudges her. “You’re becoming such a pro.”
“Shut up.”

Between scenes, Patroclus leans over and gives Achilles a quick peck.
“Hi, honey.”
“Hello.”

“Scene 23.110, take two!”


That pigeon with the constellation on its back is following him.
He keeps an eye out for it, putting one foot hastily in front of the other.
Troy's Sculpture Park has a bridge overlooking a tranquil koi pond, and it is among the water lilies and weeping willows that Paris chooses as an ideal location to pop the question.

Even on a weekday, it’s not exactly deserted. On the grassy fields, old people practice Tai Chi to the tinkling of windchimes. A group of sorority girls from Delta Iota Epsilon huddle by the bridge taking pictures of ducklings.

“And it is duckling season,” Paris comments, grappling for something to say.

Menelaus, who has been enjoying the scenery in silence, hums in reply.

“Um … I …” Hand burrowing anxiously in his pocket, trembling around the velvet box.

They’re right in the middle of the bridge, and without thinking, he plops himself down in front of Menelaus.

“Oh my god!” one of the sorority girls squeals.

“Is there something wrong with your shoe?” Menelaus asks, politely.

“No! No, no!”

“Maybe we should get you an ankle support brace. There’s a pharmacy around the corner,” Menelaus suggests.

Paris flushes. “Yeah, maybe.”

Menelaus helps him up, and they hurry over to the pharmacy, even though his heart is pounding because he doesn’t really have weak ankles, but maybe he does need nausea tablets, because his stomach is threatening to turn over on itself.

“Oh, they have a 15 percent sale on my inhaler refills,” Menelaus observes.
“Be right back, Paris.”

“Wait!” Paris shrieks, and grabs his arm.

The other customers turn to stare at them.

“You’re right, 15 percent isn’t a good enough discount,” Menelaus admits.

“Over here,” Paris whispers, and leads them to the cold and flu aisle.

Menelaus beams at him. “Don’t you just love this place! I always feel right at home in a pharmacy.”

Paris takes a deep breath. It doesn’t work, the words won’t come out, so he takes another one and leans his head against the aisle, knocking over some bottles of anti-mucus medication.

“Are you okay?” Menelaus asks, alarmed.

“Mm.”

“Oh dear, you’re making me nervous,” Menelaus says, and gets out his inhaler, puffing agitatedly.

Paris can’t take it anymore. He takes out the black velvet box and shoves it at Menelaus unceremoniously. It’s like removing his hand from a fire.

“What’s this?” Menelaus asks.
He opens the box carefully, cheeks turning a little pink. “Oh.”

“I-I-I you don’t have to keep it if you don’t want to!” Paris blurts out, voice several decibels louder than his usual volume.

More customers stare, and he ushers Menelaus to the digestive health aisle.

“I just have an important question to ask you.”

“Important?” Menelaus echoes.

“Would you - would you …”

“Yes?” Menelaus presses, eyes suddenly shining.

Paris sighs, and grabs Menelaus by the shoulders, looking him in the eye.
“Menelaus, I’m moving to my own place soon. I - it’s time. I’ve mooched around at home for too long, but now I think I’m ready, to go out there by myself, and - listen, I want you to come with me.”

Menelaus raises his eyebrows in astonishment. “Move in with you?”

“Yes. I know it’s sudden. I know we’ve only really known each other for the span of a summer. But it’s - Menelaus -” he gulps, but doesn’t break his gaze. “It’s the best summer I’ve ever had in my life. I want to have another summer with you. And another. I want to travel the world with you, Menelaus, and I don’t know - do awful, boring things like separating the whites and the darks for laundry, even though Polydorus says you don’t have to do that anymore because the washing machines these days are very good, and make breakfast, even though I can only make French toast that tastes like ass, but my scrambled eggs are decent, do you like scrambled eggs, by the way?”

“I love scrambled eggs,” Menelaus says. “But I am allergic to hazelnuts.”

“Hazelnuts be damned! They’re banned in our apartment!”

“Our apartment,” Menelaus chuckles, eyes glazing over as though imagining it. “But, Paris … you really want me? What if you get tired of being my roommate?”

“That’s not going to happen,” Paris states, vehemently.

“But how do you know that?” Menelaus laughs. “It’s not just a trip to Wisconsin, it’s a whole life together. We’ll see each other every day and have to deal with -”

Oh gods. This is the moment.

Paris clears his throat. “Listen … I - I kinda love you, okay?”

Silence.

“Nothing homoerotic about it!” he assures Menelaus, although his voice gets higher and higher. “More like, hey, you’re sort of my favorite person, even though I only found you this summer, but I spent the whole time wishing I’d found you much, much earlier, because seeing you is quite literally the highlight of my day. You make everything better. You laugh at my jokes, even the stupid ones, especially the stupid ones. You make the world such an exciting place, you know the other day I woke up early and watched the sunrise, the fucking sunrise. And I thought about Jean-Pierre and all the sunrises he must have seen, on his quest for cheesemaking excellence. And …” Paris sighs, catching his breath. “I just like myself when I’m around you, you know? And … if you don’t feel the same way, it would hurt, but it would be okay too. I’d be happy just being your friend.”

Menelaus looks inside the box. It’s just a dumb keychain in the shape of a cheese wedge for an apartment key in Paris’ other pocket. Thank goodness Agamemnon was there to help him secure the place.
“Paris, I don’t know what to say …”

“Say yes!!!” the other customers, eavesdropping shamelessly, yell in his direction.

“Oh gods,” Paris rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother moving them to another aisle.

“Of course I want to spend my life with you!” Menelaus exclaims, and leaps into Paris’ arms. They knock over an entire row of anti-diarrheal tablets, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s them, it’s the world, it’s the road ahead, full of possibilities.

Chapter 14: And that's a wrap!

Chapter Text

There’s a row of mosquito bites on his leg. He scratches, the skin comes off, raw and red underneath. He keeps scratching. It’s some persistent need to soothe the itch, even though he knows it will not subside. Scratch scratch scratch. Tiger marks all down his calf.

He leans against the log, listens to the chorus of crickets, punctuating the night air in their threnody. His tea is hot in his hands, his belly tightened with a faint stomach ache. It hasn’t ceased for days. He lies on his sleeping bag at night with a flurry of anxiousness, that feeling when one wakes up mid-dream, trying desperately to hold on to it, only to have the images slip away.
He removed his picture of Bartholomew the other day. But he can’t bear to throw it away, so in the nighttime by the faint firelight, he retrieves it from his pocket and smoothes out the crumpled, glossy paper.

Bartholomew will be back on his cruise ship by now. Sailing far away from the eastern coast. Where will he go next? Which ice cream flavor will he choose? Who will he love? Is Bartholomew god? Antilochus cocks his head to one side. So many questions.

Across the way, the tent lit from within, he sees Achilles and Patroclus’ enlarged figures moving about behind the cloth. Dinner, conversation. Movement of the hands to emphasize a point. Bickering about something again, it seems. And then they entangle, one silhouette meeting the other, and he can’t tell where it ends and where it begins. The lamp is blown out; the warmth of its glow fades from Antilochus’ skin.


The last part of the chariot they assemble is the wheels. They’ve constructed a race track on the sandy fields, its flat terrain perfect for the occasion. It’s the hardest the crew has ever worked, drops of sweat falling into sand, mixing in a slurry.

“Remember when our dads went off to the horse races?” Patroclus asks, leaning his chin on Achilles’ shoulder. The wind ruffles the other man’s hair, the strands caressing his cheek.
“The day when Turkey Leg won?” Achilles questions.

“Mmhm,” Patroclus hums, the crackling of the radio in his head, bringing out those memories like a hotwired fuse. He swears he can hear the pounding of horse hoofs against the race track, but of course that’s wrong - they hadn’t been at the race. They’d listened to the last quarter on the radio, perhaps to gauge what mood their fathers would be in upon return -

And they’d taken out Menoitius’ Road Runner. It had been sky blue, his pride and joy - complete with strict rules to be obeyed if one rode in the back, no eating, no drinking, no gum. Patroclus’ old man had been a tyrant that way. But the two of them, rife with teenage fervor, had taken the Road Runner for a drive through the city. It had been the night of all nights, the city lights flashing once the sky darkened, music blaring into subliminal space, and they’d had no cares, no fears.
What it was like to be seventeen again.

“And then your dad caught us having sex in the car and tried to shoot me,” Achilles recalls.

Patroclus’ laughter suffuses his skin. “Hey, it was just his way of showing love.”

“I’m quite sure he hated me to the very end.”
Indeed, it had been an anomaly, the kind of mild scandal enough to make the old men pause in their card game for a minute. Achilles can picture it like yesterday;

Banging on the door, loud and booming; it’s morning, they’re having a coffee in silence.
“Oi Peleus, open up!!! Did you know your son is fucking my son?!!!

Achilles has to give it to his dad, the man doesn’t so much as twitch an eyebrow.

Peleus finishes his coffee without a fuss.
“Is this true?”

At Achilles’ nod, he simply shrugs.
“Well. Could have done worse. At least it isn’t Antilochus.”

“Of course not!”

They let Menoitius abuse the door for a good half hour.

Peleus stares blankly at the table, then gets up. “Well. I’m off to play cards.”

Patroclus’ side of the story is wildly different. Achilles almost feels sorry, but it had been amusing too, running around as they did, skirting Menoitius’ glare. And the wedding. Gods, what a disaster. Watching their fathers get drunk, loudly declaring their friendship for each other over cheap supermarket sheet cake.

“We had it all, darling,” Achilles laughs, and pulls Patroclus into his arms.

Two kids from a primitive town in the middle of nowhere, who’d somehow - just somehow - been meant for each other. From the very beginning, he thinks. He knows it was from the very beginning, the first time he’d seen Patroclus through the heavy smoke of the coffee shop.

And they’d snuck off together and gone to the movies, those midnight viewings of arthouse films and vignettes from the silent era - he’d thought Patroclus would get bored, this shy neighbor boy who followed him everywhere. But Patroclus had not been bored, that smile of his widening in awe, exposed to a world he’d never seen before. A world of action and storytelling and the plain magic that was cinema.

They’d always gone, just the two of them, without the other boys. The seasons passed, and then the years. He’d been a kid of nine or ten. And even at that age, Patroclus had always seen him not just as what he was - but what he would be.

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve - he’d grown up in love. In love with the screen, and the boy whose eyes reflected those images, the flappers of the jazz age, the intrigue of film noir, the vivid colors of musicals against a crisp mountain landscape. They’d all been there, decades of stories, his dreams encapsulated in one person.

When they finished school it became impossible to ignore.
He’d shocked the neighborhood by showing up on Menoitius’ doorstep and laying all his hopes down.

“Marry my son? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Menoitius grumbles, eyes fixed on him in beady suspicion.

“You kids are barely in college,” Peleus adds, from behind him.

“Wait, dad? What are you doing here?” Achilles questions, not expecting that.

Peleus shrugs. “It’s cigar night. Speaking of, Menoitius, did you try this Nicaraguan? It’s got a real creamy chocolate note.”

Menoitius waves him off, not breaking his gaze from Achilles.
“No.” And slams the door in his face.

Achilles dithers, and looks up in search of Patroclus, pale and eager in his bedroom window.
What the hell do I do now? he mouths.

Maybe we can tell them at the same time! Patroclus mouths back.

And so he barges into Menoitius’ living room, the scent of tobacco hitting him like a tsunami.

“Dad. Uncle Menoitius.”

Patroclus pads down the stairs, already in his pajamas.
They take a collective breath.
“We’re kind of already married.”

For the first time in his life, he sees a tinge of surprise in his father’s expression. And amusement. A whole lot of amusement. Damn the old codger.

“... We went to city hall a week ago,” Patroclus mumbles, avoiding Menoitius’ glower. “We signed the papers. But … we really, really … want you to come to the wedding.”

Talk about asking for forgiveness, not permission.

“Are you insane? You don’t even have a job!” Menoitius growls.

“Look at it this way, ole pal,” Peleus reasons. “Yes, our dumb, irresponsible children have made an incredibly hasty decision. And yes, they'll probably regret it for the rest of their lives.…… But at least it’s not Antilochus.”

Silence.

“.... I guess you’re right about that,” Menoitius admits.

They had been dumb. It had been hasty. But at that age Achilles had felt the world was incomplete, without Patroclus firmly at his side. They’d just been crazy about each other. It’s the only way he can explain it. If he could do it over, he’s not certain how much would be different. Maybe he would have worked harder. Been more patient. Put a roof over their heads before grabbing the camera and going off to make movies. But he looks at Patroclus now and doubts any of that would have mattered to the man.

Not long after, Menoitius had gotten sick. In a few short months, he was gone. The group of old men playing cards slowly dwindled. Peleus, left all alone, watching the paint peeling off the walls. He never asked his dad what it was like, back then. Maybe it’s just a fact of life. That all this will be over someday, their friends will move away or die, and there’ll be nothing left but laughter and old arguments and drunken confessions over cake.
Blowing away in the wide-soaring wind.

Not this one, though, he thinks, Patroclus flush against him, watching the completed race track in the sun-rinsed afternoon. This one he will immortalize. All of them, as they are, as they were - captured on screen. It’s more than the war at this point. It’s more than blood and bitter rage. And on the other side of the lens, just like those images once breathed in a young boy’s awestruck eyes - they will live forever.


“We have to think about how we’re going to film the race. Diomedes cannot drive a chariot. And Menelaus and Antilochus are barely hanging on,” Achilles says, laying out their plans.
On the map, each charioteer is represented by gummy bears.

“It’s gotta be full body view,” Patroclus argues. “Wide shot. Long take. You know that’s how you want to do it.”

“But our players don’t have the experience,” Achilles frowns, scowling at Strawberry Menelaus, Green Apple Diomedes, Pineapple Antilochus and Orange Eumelus (who was never cast).

“I did wonder about that,” Patroclus agrees. “Which is why …” And his grin is a crescent, taking Achilles’ hand and squeezing it. “I’ve asked for a little help.”

Achilles can’t fathom what he means, but all of a sudden the sound of thunder roars in the distance. Except it isn’t thunder. He gets up and throws open the tent flap, immediately zeroing in on the crew gathered to watch the chariot circling round and round and round the track, sand flying in its wake, the horses’ coats gleaming like the surface of an abalone shell.

And inside the chariot, a familiar figure, well-known to everyone in the crew, perhaps everyone at the University of Troy - especially when they would all gather in the bars to watch the Olympics, cheering him on.

“It’s Automedon!!!” Antilochus shrieks, and runs towards the track in leaps and bounds.

The horses slow to a stop, their movements in perfect synchronicity. Automedon descends his chariot, catching Antilochus mid-jump; the force of it should knock them both to the ground, but it doesn’t.
“Dude!!! You’re back!!!” Antilochus yells. They erupt into laughter, uproarious and carefree.

“Hey. I saw you on the wall of a department store one time!” Automedon says, as though they haven’t not seen each other for years.

Antilochus thinks. “Was it the blue pajamas with the rocket ships? Because that’s my best one. Please say it’s the rocket ship one!”

Automedon laughs. He sees the others walking towards them.

“Well, well, well,” Achilles voices, folding his arms. “Look what the wheels dragged in.”

“Heard you have an open position,” Automedon replies, mouth curling in a mischievous smile. “For a stunt double.”

“Surprise!” Patroclus exclaims, a few beats too late.

“Is Automedon going to be in the documentary? Is he? Is he?!” Antilochus demands, grabbing Achilles’ arm and shaking it.

“Oh thank god,” they hear Diomedes muttering in the background. “I really, really didn’t want to do it.”

“You wanted a chariot race,” Patroclus nudges Achilles. “He’s the guy who can own that track, and you know it.”

Achilles would never have thought they’d all be here together. If his father could see this, he muses, shaking his head. It seems the gang really is back together again.


 

He kicks up sand, shooting in a wide arc towards a flock of seagulls; they scatter. The entire summer they’ve been here, and he’s gotten used to the squidgy sensation of it between his toes, in his sandals, never lost no matter how many times he soaks his feet.

They stroll along the woven sunset, eating loukoumades and licking honey off their fingers. Antilochus glances over at the charioteer, thinking not a single thing has changed. But if he pays close attention - at their minuscule height difference, at the sinew of Automedon’s shoulders, the result of years of training - those are only the visible ones.

This summer has given him the power to walk on air. To exist at zero gravity. Where things are not really as they seem, and it’s between the lines, behind the eyes - that he now sees. And what he sees in Automedon is a long-lived affection for their childhood. The image of rowdy boys running barefoot past their taciturn fathers - eternal. And beyond that, there is triumph. Automedon had been a meteorite, rising to fame faster than any of them could catch up with. He’d left their little town and made his name and won gold medals.

But meteorites don’t last forever, no, their beauty can only be enjoyed in one brief moment, the entire sky lighting up to make way. Automedon has reached his fading years, the inevitable downhill trek once one reaches the summit. Falling. He is but a falling star, and Antilochus knows he will do it gracefully.

He waits for one of them to break the silence. Funny. It was always him doing that, but he’s learned something else. He’s learned to absorb the quiet moments, the moments of ease - he listens to the roar of the waves, the siren of the seagulls - and smiles at Automedon, his childhood buddy, and watches him smile back.

“So what’s this about you having an affair with a cameraman?” Automedon asks, eventually.

Antilochus balks. “I - what - how do you even -”

“Patroclus writes me letters,” Automedon states, turning to face him.

“It’s - it’s not even - it’s not an affair!” Antilochus squawks.

Automedon presses his lips together, doubtful, eyes crinkled with mirth.
“So he’s here?”

“No … he had to go back to his country. And … well, I’ve been trying not to think about it!”

“That bad, huh?” Automedon presses.

Antilochus sighs. “Do you ever get that feeling? Like you’re … empty inside? Like how the Irish people must have felt when the potatoes were gone in 1845?”

Automedon tilts his head to one side, considering.
“He isn’t that far away, is he?”

“But it’s not so simple as just hopping on a train! Maybe he doesn’t even want to see me! Maybe it was just a summer fling, not that there even was a fling … maybe he’d be mortified if I followed him, like some weird creep, or maybe he was never interested and I was reading all the wrong signals! Agh! I don’t know!” Antilochus twists his hands in his hair.

Automedon is laughing at him, the bastard.
“You’re overthinking this way too much. This is not the Antilochus I know. The Antilochus I know would climb to the roof and scream it to the world, uncertainties be damned!”

“Yeah … maybe I’ve changed a little,” Antilochus admits. “It’s just that when I think about him, I feel like I could be a different person. I felt like a different person around him, like I wasn’t some dumb pajama model, but a person who was worth listening to and spending time with.”

“You’ve always been that person,” Automedon replies, after a brief silence. “I think you just didn’t know it.”
He throws an arm around Antilochus. “Come on, Romeo - I’ll buy you some noodles.”


Chariot racing is the sport of kings. In the heat of the afternoon sun the wheels circle like the eye of the world. It is painfully clear as soon as the horses take off - the difference between amateurs and a seasoned professional. They film Automedon from the side and back - he commands the horses with expert precision, the sea of their manes roiling in the fierce wind.

Antilochus follows second, Menelaus third. The real trick is filming the crash - the makeup team, now reduced to Machaon, spend hours on the special effects makeup. Painting long stripes of bruises, ripped skin, all along Automedon’s limbs - the medic tent where they work is stiff with the scent of fake blood and glue.

“Smile!” Antilochus orders, and Automedon flashes a grin beneath the gore. “This will be great for our scrapbook!” Antilochus announces happily.

“It was not as bad as I thought,” Menelaus allows, taking a puff of his inhaler. He raises his arm in a fist pump. “Channel your inner Charlton Heston!”

“That’s what I tell myself every day!” Automedon joins in.

In between takes, they cook oatmeal in a large crock pot and consume it for energy.
“Alright, everyone!” Patroclus announces, waving both arms to get the crew’s attention. “We’re gonna need you in tip-top shape for the final take! This means there must be screaming. Whoever screams loudest will be given a prize!”

“It’s gonna be me,” Antilochus states, confident.

“Not you, Antilochus, you’ll be busy racing!”

“Screaming is a basic human right.”

“Save your breath, because after the race you’ll start an argument with Menelaus -”

“Why would I argue with Menelaus? He’s a sweetheart and an asthmatic,” Antilochus objects.

This goes on for several minutes.

“Guys, can we please?” Achilles steps in. “Automedon can only be here for a few days, and I want to make sure we get everything right.”

“What, you’re leaving so soon?! But you just got here!” Antilochus groans, and knocks his head against Automedon’s arm. “Everyone I love leaves me!”

“What are we, a couple of plastic bags in the wind?” Patroclus questions.

~~~

Miraculously, they finish the final race in one take.
And that’s it.
Their very last shot, a whir of movement as Diomedes/Automedon soars through the finish line. Arms straining, breath releasing, axles enduring. Barely registering the weight of victory.

The shriekers compete for first prize, their cry defeating the ocean.

“Pour the champagne!” Patroclus calls, elated.
“We’re done!!!”

“We don’t have champagne, but will soda water work?” Machaon drawls from the tent.


“Gods, I could use a drink,” Achilles sighs, collapsing onto the bed and resting his head in Patroclus’ lap. “A good, stiff, single malt. The kind my father keeps on the top shelf, back row.”

“We’re really done,” Patroclus exhales. “Just like that. One summer. Blink, and it’s gone.”

“Not completely. There’s still all the editing,” Achilles groans, and buries his face in Patroclus’ thigh. “But at least I can sleep easy tonight.”

Patroclus watches his eyelids fall shut, his breathing even. “Hey,” he pokes Achilles.

“Hmph?” One eye opening.

“Proud of you.”

Achilles grunts, but the side of his cheek creases in the tiniest of smiles. He presses a kiss to Patroclus’ leg and falls asleep.


A phone rings.

“Hello?” Patroclus squints in the light of the electric lamp, Achilles dead as a log next to him. It’s drizzling outside, he can’t tell for sure, but the smell of rain is unmistakable. He rubs his eyes hard.

“Oh … surely there must be some mistake. Okay. I’ll see what I can do. Right. Take care.”

He hangs up, then turns round and shakes Achilles awake.

~~~

“- and it got me thinking, if artificial intelligence became … sentient - would I feel bad ordering them around like butlers? Because then they wouldn’t be so different from humans, and what makes us human anyway? Aside from our anatomy …”

“Right,” Automedon nods. They’re lying on Antilochus’ floor, and the drizzle is getting louder, but sporadic - like pebbles tossed carelessly onto the roof of the tent.
“I always thought if they were able to feel emotion, I mean … even going so far as to feel empathy … that’s a tough one.”

“But robots are cool and I’d be sad if my robot butler didn’t want to work for me anymore,” Antilochus pouts.

“Then you could start paying him and he’d just be like a regular person,” Automedon shrugs.

Patroclus pokes his head through the tent.
“Hey, guys.”

“Oh, hi Patroclus! We’re doing sci-fi movie marathon night, you want in?” Antilochus asks.

Patroclus looks sheepish. “So uh … a bit of news.”

Antilochus sits up, alarmed. “Oh no! Is it the cows? I’m sorry, I didn’t know Automedon was going to bring his own horses! I swear I’ll go back and ask for a refund!”

Patroclus’ eyes flicker side to side. “What. Antilochus … what did you do now?!”

“They’re really nice cows,” Automedon adds, in an effort to smooth things over. “And in his defense, there is a shortage of horses now!”

Patroclus chews on this, silent. “We’ll talk about it later. Just … maybe not mention it to Achilles.” He glances between the two men. “I don’t know how to put this, but … the cameraman … got on the wrong train. He’s somewhere in Romania by now.”

The silence grows.

Antilochus’ face falls. “But … he’ll come to the film festival, right?”

Patroclus bites his lip. “Uhh … further bad news. There was some sort of accident on the railroad, and the entire line shut down. They’re trying to fix it, they really are … but it could take at least a month. It’s very possible he won’t be able to make it to the festival.”

“But that’s not fair! We wouldn’t have this documentary without him!” Antilochus bursts out.

“I’m sorry, Antilochus.”

“We’re all going to a fancy auditorium watching what we made together, and it’ll mean nothing because he won’t be there.”

“We were thinking of taping the festival. We could send it to him,” Patroclus suggests. “I mean, I know it won’t be the same - but I’m sure he’d be really happy to see his work on the big screen.”

“I’m not going,” Antilochus frowns.

Patroclus swallows, glancing at Automedon for help.

“My question is, how’d he end up in Romania?” Automedon asks, confused.

~~~

Sci-fi movie marathon night is canceled.
Antilochus dives into his sleeping bag, zips it all the way up, and unfolds his picture of Bartholomew. “You were supposed to guide us,” he whispers, unable to keep the resentment out of his voice. “But you’re just a - a - dumb, bald tourist!” He bursts into tears, like a pathetic child. He tears the photograph in half.

A few minutes pass.

He sighs, turns on his electric lamp, and reassembles the torn pieces with scotch tape. He’d never be so careless as to throw it away. Even if it’s a mess right now, the edges frayed and uneven.

He strokes the picture and tapes it back next to his pillow.

But he can’t sleep, so he opens the tent flap and sits in the fresh air, listening to the downpour, and the clattering of hail stones against the trees.

Chapter 15: End Credits

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

He’d once gone skating as a boy. On a massive rink in the middle of the city, where the trees withered bone-white in the coming winter. The skyline was foreboding against the cloudy sky, the sound of blades cutting through the ice.

Of course, that’s just a lie.

He’d gone skating as a boy, yes. But it had been at the mall, on a crowded holiday. People had bumped into him. Kids had cried on the icy floor. Parents had yelled. Nothing quite picture-perfect enough for a movie. But that’s the problem with him. Always trying to make things perfect, to reimagine the scene in vibrant color and sound -

And here, in the midst of others just like him, his crowd - he can feel the thirst for it as surely as a dried up well in the middle of the desert. All the line-ups for the festival, short films, foreign films, feature-length - his, of course, in the documentary section. He keeps running it over in his head - should he have left that part in, should he have used a different take?

Next to him, Patroclus is snacking in his red velvet seat, looking a million dollars in a tuxedo. He’s a lot less nervous than Achilles would have thought. Come to think of it, everyone has demonstrated remarkable calm. He thinks Diomedes has disappeared to the bar in the back. The others, he can’t tell. He wishes he’d gotten a real drink after all, but wants to experience their premier in a state of sobriety.

The film festival is held on seven consecutive days, each one scheduled for a different genre. Theirs is on the sixth - right before the day for short films. He leans over and takes Patroclus’ hand in his, pressing a kiss to the groove between his thumb and forefinger. “One of these days, I might venture out into movies. Fiction.”

“Mmph?” Patroclus questions, mouth full. He’s really making a dent in those hors d’oeuvres. “But you love your documentaries!”

True. Something about real life, the nitty and gritty, the idea that truth is stranger than fiction - something about that has always drawn him in. But this war - the way they’ve designed the characters, the lines they’ve added to the script, the creation of the set - there’s an element of storytelling to it he’s never done before. And now he has, and finds that he enjoys it. So maybe it is time to try something new.

Patroclus feeds him a piece of cracker and marmalade, actually he’s not sure it’s marmalade - tiny orange baubles on top of a cheese spread. Sequins flash in the corner of his eye - Briseis and Diomedes, arm in arm, gliding over to them.
“Achilles … something just doesn’t seem right,” Diomedes admits.
“Are we really going to sit through this whole thing without the cameraman?” Briseis adds. “It doesn’t matter if we’re part of the cast or crew, we’re all in this together. And -”

“I know, I know,” Achilles sighs. But what can he do? They’ve been gearing up for this the whole summer. He’s under no illusion that they’re going to win any awards, but to garner a good first reception is a prize in itself. Briseis and Diomedes saunter away, disappointed. He sits in silence, wondering if it really is the right thing. He’d wanted to watch the film he’d made. With the people who’d been a part of it.

“It’s okay, honey,” Patroclus reassures him. “You’ve worked so hard on this, you deserve a break. As for the rest, we’ll figure it out -”

“You look beautiful,” Achilles tells him, offhandedly. Nothing seems to get rid of the tight coil in his stomach, the sense that it’s just off. When it should be their night, when they should be enjoying drinks and laughing it over and networking with other filmmakers.
Patroclus flushes. And flutters his eyelashes teasingly. “Not too shabby yourself.” Then he stretches over the seat partition and plants a kiss on Achilles’ cheek. “Seriously. Try to enjoy yourself? For me?”

Well, how can he say no to that?


Meanwhile …

 

“We got two hundred views on www.We’veGotYouCupboard.com!” Diomedes exclaims, checking his email. “I’ve got to tell Deiphobus!”

“What, the one you guys put up earlier?” Briseis asks.

“No, that one got sold to help finish the documentary. This is a new one. A … secret project we've been working on, so to speak.” A mischievous look crosses Diomedes’ face. He’s silent for a while, typing on his phone. Then he seems to hesitate. “Hey, Briseis?”

“What?” The ending of filming has thrown her life somewhat off-balance, the thought of moving back in with her mother disconcerting.

“I was thinking about … putting my studies on hold for a bit. You see, Deiphobus and I were talking. And since we live relatively close, we thought we could open a workshop in his garage. And do carpentry full time. It sounds crazy, I know.”

She frowns at him. “Why are you telling me? It’s not like you need my permission.”

“Yeah, but … the carpentry business is real competitive these days. And we’ll need someone to help us find our brand. Neither of us are any use at marketing. I thought … if you could join us - we can’t pay you a lot right now, but when the profits start coming in …”

She’s never seen Diomedes make an earnest effort like this before. To her, he was always the one for whom everything came easy. There’s a weird sensation in her chest, a swelling, almost … pride?
“I don’t know what to say.”

“Just know that when you graduate, and if you ever want a job closer to home - you have one right here,” Diomedes tells her.

She can’t help but smile at him. “Don’t think you can boss me around though.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”


“Hello, you’re watching Hammin it up With Hector! on the Trojan Cuisine Channel. Which does not involve ham. Today we’re going to make pesto, or as I like to call it - the poor man’s tapenade.”

They haven’t expected it to take off, but the network insists they’ve had the highest ratings out of all the local cooking shows. It’s a surprise, for sure - considering their whole spiel is about the mistakes made in the cooking process, all from the perspective of a new cook.

“We’ve gotten some letters from viewers asking what happened to Dummy Hector,” Andromache mentions. “But for the most part, they’re happy with the change-up.”

“That’s good to know,” Hector laughs.

Last week, they made their final farewell.
Candles on the water. An inflatable raft. And the wide-spanning sea.
Dummy Hector had had a send-off befitting any tragic hero.

And now it’s simply Hector, singular. He can pretend he’s not sad. But the first few days returning to work had been a struggle. Everywhere he looked, he caught a glimpse of Dummy Hector’s touch. Whether it be a stray shaving of plastic on the hardwood floor. Or a fiber from his t-shirt. Dummy Hector was everywhere, in his darkest dreams and fantasies. He would never forget him.

On the plus side; “Pesto?” he asks, and holds the spoon out to Andromache. Warmth fills his chest when she lets out a satisfied hum - he’s begun to love it when people enjoy his food. Even if it is only an exhibition dish for the show.
“You know, now that we’ve got some money rolling in - we can finally have that honeymoon.”

Andromache looks surprised, like she hasn’t expected it to cross his mind. “But you’ve been so busy these past few years -”

“Exactly. Years. It all went by so fast, and I spent it stressed out of my mind. This time … I want to sit back and enjoy it.”

Andromache tilts her head to the side, considering. “Well … where do you want to go?”


He’s never been to campus this late at night before. He didn’t even know they held classes at this time. The clouds shift around a full moon, its eye on him wherever he goes. He stops for a moment, between the boulevard of bare trees, contemplating the quiet night.
Spanish guitar music fills the air. And he steps inside the building, in time for his first lesson.

“Welcome everyone! We’re always pleased to have new students, even first-timers. The department of music and dance is excited to present this series of classes focusing on flamenco.”

Polydorus stands among the group of new recruits, hands in his pockets, trying not to look too nervous. The first class is free, so it’s not like he’s making some huge commitment. But he’d been thinking about this for a while. He’d even rented some dvd’s from the store, listened to some of the music. It’s the first time he’s ever had anything akin to a hobby, but with Paris gone and Deiphobus working on the woodshop, he finds he has a lot of free time these days.

“Our guest instructor for this course is Agamemnon, who will be accompanying us on guitar for each dance.”
He’d felt somewhat sheepish, even though the man had invited him. It’s just slightly embarrassing. Not that Agamemnon is an expert, either, as he’s mentioned repeatedly.
The other man doesn’t seem to notice him at first, but as the instructor continues, they catch each other’s eye. Polydorus offers a shy wave. He’s never really had friends, either, at least not ones who genuinely want to spend time with him. First time for everything.


“Excuse me, sir? Do you mind?”

“Why, of course I don’t mind!”

A new key turning in the lock, the resounding click of metal. Paris has never noticed it before, but metal smells pretty good. It’s heavy in his hand, enough to leave a dent. He and Menelaus share an excited look.
And then he winds his arms around the other’s legs, around his back - and lifts him up bridal-style.
“Gotta go about things the traditional way!” he insists, carrying a laughing Menelaus over the threshold.

“Now my turn!” Menelaus exclaims, as soon as he sets him down. They go through the whole process again, until the threshold is crossed twice. This is a twice-blessed household. He can’t wait, he thinks, surveying the vicinity with a grin. Even this far away from the ocean, he can still smell the aftermath of salt - carried on the breeze, infusing the apartment with familiarity.

There are crude drawings on the staircase coming up, and irate mothers tugging their children by the hand across the chalky basketball court. It’s not the quietest building. But the noises don’t matter, for when he leaves the window open the evening air lies heavy on his skin, like a blanket of satin. He can smell rosemary and thyme and lemon balm from the balcony next door, and hear a grandmother’s lilting lullaby. The neighborhood goes to sleep and comes awake simultaneously. It’s not the prettiest of places, filled to the brim with run-of-the-mill people from all walks of life. When the sun sets, the twilight merging into purple clouds, he turns his face from the balcony, indoor lights washing over him.

It brings him a thrill, the sight of his wallet and keys placed next to Menelaus’ backup inhalers on the end table. The simplest thing. It’s always the simplest thing. Their couch is ratty and old but when the clock strikes midnight, they look at each other, the buzz of the television drowning out their thoughts.

“What’s it gonna be?” Menelaus asks. “The Godfather II, or Some Like it Hot?”

Decisions, decisions.
But now he won’t have to make them alone.


Day of the Premier

 

He’s slept through half of the previous documentary. It’s one thing to show up in his best clothes (best rental clothes, anyway), fresh-faced for the first, second, maybe even third day of the festival. But once they get to the sixth, impatience rears its head.

“You were right,” Patroclus exhales, holding on to Achilles’ arm. “It just doesn’t feel complete without our entire crew.”

“There’s something … I didn’t tell you,” Achilles mentions.

Patroclus raises an eyebrow.

“Just wait and see.”

The screen goes white.

And just as they begin to settle in their seats -

“There’s a beached whale over there. We can’t shoot.” Antilochus’ face, grainy on the screen.

“That’s a tourist.” The cameraman’s voice.

Camera panning over to a bald, pot-bellied man sunbathing on the shoreline.

Achilles senses Patroclus freezing. “What?” the other man breathes. “That can’t be right. Shit, Achilles, did we submit the wrong one?!”

He leans back in his chair, satisfied. He can feel a similar stir among the others, seated in a row as they are, eyes glued to the screen. The entire auditorium seems to pulsate. “No. This is the one.”

This is their moment. And as the next few minutes pass, it’s very clear this is not the film they were expecting to see.

In truth, it’s a documentary within a documentary. Sure, it paints a picture of the war. The screen lights up in shades of scarlet and gold, the troops’ war cry sounding out to the high heavens. But alongside each of these scenes is what comes after and in between.

Footage of the streets of Troy, the tents on the beach, Antilochus chasing seagulls and grinning back at the camera.

They show interviews with the cast, a series of shots of Dummy Hector scaring tourists on the beach. The fireworks at night, a contest between both sides of the wall. Menelaus and Paris, sneaking off to see each other in the grassy mountains of Ida.

It’s a story about an unlikely cast, coming together to fight in a war. And it’s a story about movie making, all the struggles that come with it.

It wasn’t what Achilles had in mind when he’d first set out to bring Troy to the world. But hours upon hours, sitting alone in the tent going through all that footage. And he’d known, right then. That this was how he had to tell it.

“Oh, Achilles,” Patroclus whispers, and lays his head on Achilles’ shoulder.
Just like old times, running off to the movies together. It’s like they’re alone, watching a film made just for them, even among the crowds in the silent auditorium.


After Party

 

It’ll be a rainy autumn ahead of them. Birdsong, echoing through the trees. The sap-green light of the arboretum shielding them from the lightest of drizzles. Unassuming music plays softly, people begin to dance on the vinyl floor. So polished they can see reflections across the surface, figures entwined in melodious embrace, the swish of organza dresses and the shapes of farfalle bowties.

The film festival’s after party is a cacophony of champagne glasses, clicking shoe soles, and conversation. But Antilochus doesn’t feel much for conversation. He’s stuffed his cheeks with two salmon roe-covered crackers, and he watches the dancing couples, forlorn. Achilles is engaged in discussion with a fellow director, some other documentary about a long farewell …

“Have I ever filmed aboard a ship?” Achilles voices, when asked. “Oh, no. We simply didn’t have the budget for that.”

“But if you did, what would be next? Achilles Pelides films The Odyssey?” the other director asks, manner jesting.

Achilles takes it in stride. He finds Patroclus in the crowd, puts an arm around him. “Not without my other half.”

Antilochus turns away from the scene, heart sinking. A hand taps him on the shoulder. “Wanna dance?”

“No thanks,” he mumbles, but turns around to see Menelaus and Paris awaiting him, hands in their pockets.
“... Okay. I can do one dance. And then I want to get black-out drunk, and no one can stop me.”

The three of them amble over to the dance floor, linking arms in a motley trinity. “Come on. You liked what he did with the documentary, didn’t you?” Paris asks.

“Yeah, Antilochus. Who would’ve thought you’d be the real star of the show?” Menelaus adds.

“... I don’t want to be a star,” Antilochus whispers. Menelaus smells good, like cedar, sea salt, and a warm fireplace. He leans closer to inhale.

“Still lovesick over the cameraman?” Menelaus guesses.

“I don’t want to do this without him,” Antilochus frowns.

There’s a short pause as they dodge past happy couples, drunk couples. “Who says you have to?” Paris questions.

Antilochus contemplates it. “What?”

Paris and Menelaus share a grin. “Wanna get out of here?”


A Train Station, Somewhere in (Apparently) Romania

 

“Ladies and gentleman, please return to Terminal C for return trip tickets. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”

The cameraman digs through his pockets, wondering if he has any change left. Tired of vending machine snacks, he’d hitchhiked across the country the past few weeks, stopping at remote towns armed with nothing but camera equipment and the wrong currency. He’d taken some good pictures, at least.

It’d been in the middle of a bite of sweet bread that he’d received news the railroad was repaired. And so he’d made the trek to the nearest station, hoping to all gods available that there would be a line connecting him to his final destination.

It’s late afternoon now, that soft, quiet breath before evening - and he’s the only one on the platform, little protecting him against the oncoming chill. He has to remind himself it will get better, it’ll be cozy in the train, and in the meantime he can have lukewarm coffee in a paper cup and read comic strips from a newspaper he doesn’t understand.

Antilochus would laugh at him if he knew. Eyes crinkling up, the light of distant Mars warming up the atmosphere. He’d bought Antilochus a postcard from all the towns he visited, it’s a beautiful country, full of green pastures and tree-lined mountains. Exactly the sort of place he imagines the other man would feel at home, even if he’s beginning to wonder if any of it happened at all.

If what he recalls of their walks on the beach, that face finding him in the vivid colors of the camera, is just a trick his memory’s playing on him.

“Ladies and gentleman, the train is approaching the terminal. Please do not block the doors.”

He picks up his knapsack, chest constricting as he hears the train chugging along the tracks. He can see it, in the distance, against the hills.
If it was a dream, it was a pleasant one indeed. And he counts himself lucky, to have been a part of it, to be the silent observer behind the lens, capturing each and every moment as it is.
Even without a camera, he is a cameraman. He’ll be one for the rest of his life, this he knows.

The train arrives. The doors slide open.

He gets his ticket ready, slings his knapsack over his shoulder. Goodbye, comes the word. He blinks it away.

***

They race into the terminal, lungs struggling to keep up. Menelaus fumbles for his inhaler, puffing aggressively.
“Is this - wheeze - the right - wheeze - station?!”

Paris runs a thumb over the schedule posted on the wall. “Looks like the next train is arriving soon.”

They hear it before they see it. It sweeps past them, wailing over the tracks, a mesh of red and green and red again. Much like the picture books Antilochus had read as a child, about a tank engine and his friends.

He catches the wind it leaves in its trail, wide-eyed.
“Oh,” is all he manages to say.
He finds a bench and sinks into it. “We’re too late.”

“It was a close call, man,” Paris exhales, clapping him on the back. “Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be this time. But hey … next time, right? You won’t give up?”

Antilochus reaches into his pocket, the crumpled up picture of Bartholomew the Tourist rippling in the waning midday light. “Yeah.”

They fall into silence.

Slowly, Antilochus’ fingers loosen.

The picture of the tourist wedges out of his fingers, falling to the ground. The breeze blows it away, like a forgotten reverie.

Menelaus is refilling his inhaler when the photograph catches his eye. Tripping and tumbling through the gales.

It lands on top of a worn-out shoe, and bounces away into obscurity.

But Menelaus lifts his eyes, watches the shoes stepping into the entrance of the remaining train, the familiar figure meandering over to the seats within, then stopping at a window and leaning out.

His pulse begins to race. “Guys …”
Antilochus and Paris are already headed towards the exit. Menelaus yells after them. “GUYS! We had the wrong train!”

“Well, shit,” Paris mutters, when he realizes.

Antilochus stops in his tracks, turns around, face white.

The figure in the train seems to notice they’re there. His eyes move towards Antilochus. Their gazes lock.

***

The countryside scenery disappears behind him, a blur of mottled greens and browns, a faint outline of foothills.
He leans his head out the window, catching the wind on his face as one would catch snowflakes on the tongue.

And his body is rife with laughter, brewing and bubbling, threatening to explode out of him as his eyes refuse to break away from the man running alongside the tracks, keeping steady pace with the departing train.

“Run, Antilochus!!!” Menelaus and Paris cheer the man on.

“What happened at the film festival?” the cameraman calls out.

“Never mind that!” Antilochus answers, bursting into a sprint, grin breaking out on his face.

Just then, a commotion can be heard from the terminal gates, and a group of extremely well-dressed people barge through, their voices overwhelming each other. “Antilochus! Wait! You don’t have your passport!” Patroclus, leading the group.

The cameraman squints at them. A flurry of black tuxedos and sparkly dresses, a well-known face above each of them. The cast and the crew, come to see him when they should have been enjoying the festival. Something lets off inside him, a piece of a Jenga tower, moved. The blocks collapsing.

“Send it to me!” Antilochus yells. Right before the train picks up speed, he reaches the cameraman’s window.

The cameraman stretches an arm out.
Their fingers meet, and lace together.
He pulls Antilochus up through the window, and the man scrambles through, laughing.

The entire crew erupts in a series of whoops and cheers.

“Ride off into the sunset, you two!!!” Patroclus calls.

“We’ll send you the tape!” Achilles insists.

They wave back at them, the cast and crew rushing to the very end of the terminal, until their faces vanish from sight, and the station is but a speck on the horizon.

Antilochus leans his elbows on the window ledge, hair windblown, cheeks pink with exhilaration. When he turns his eyes to the cameraman they are Mars at sunrise.
Come walk on the ceiling with me, they seem to say.

Yes, is all the cameraman can answer, wants to answer, will ever answer.

Next stop: outer space! Antilochus and the cameraman, and nothing can stop them.

“So,” Antilochus starts, now it’s just them, and the empty train. He rises from his spot by the window to face the cameraman. They regard each other, the same way they’d done that first day on the beach. He’d realized a long time ago that he would’ve followed Antilochus anywhere. Now it seems; the other has returned the favor.
“I never did catch your name, did I?”

“No,” the cameraman says.

“Pity,” Antilochus replies, head tilted to one side.

They close the distance; noses meeting, lips.

“But we’ve got all the time in the world.”

Notes:

I hope you had as much fun reading this as I had writing it!

Music for this chapter below.

Achilles thinking about skating

film festival after party

Finale