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He finds Patroclus sitting under a tree, nose in a book, just like he knew he would.
“You’re studying? On a day like today?”
It's a perfect spring day in New York; a rare, cloudless, non-muggy day where just the shade of the new leaves could keep Patroclus cool. His white button-up shirt moves softly in the breeze; the ends of his thick, dark, curly hair follow. Finally he looks up at him, squinting up through his thick glasses drolly.
“I’m not studying, I’m just reading.”
“And waiting for me,” Achilles says, and Patroclus breaks into a smile.
“No,” he says, but his grin gives him away.
“Just reading? Outside the music school? Across campus from your med lectures?”
“I like to walk,” Patroclus says. Achilles drops down to his knees, and they’re suddenly nose-to-nose.
“And I like to run,” he says wickedly, “but that’s not what I’m doing today.”
When he kisses him, Achilles can swear he feels the pink in Patroclus’ cheeks, and it isn’t from the sun. After all this time, he loves knowing he can still make Pat blush. After a long moment--about as long as he can handle with other people around, Achilles flops down onto his back, settling his head on Patroclus’ crossed legs, violin case forgotten next to him in the grass. When Pat speaks again his voice is feigning unaffectedness, still slightly strained, and Achilles feels like giggling.
“You should be more careful with that,” Patroclus says of the violin, turning his page. “One day you’re going to lose it, and then where would you be?”
“Still a dignitary’s son with a clear path to Olympic gold in the men’s 400 meters?” He can practically hear Pat’s tut tut of disapproval, so he clasps his leg to let him know he’s joking. “But of course, a dignitary’s son with a very, very upset boyfriend, who should know that letting him use his mother’s violin is very, very greatly appreciated.” He doesn’t have to be looking at him to know that Patroclus is giving his smallest, most begrudging, most hopelessly charmed smile. The one that says, what am I going to do with you, Achilles? “What are you reading?”
“A book about octopus brains,” Pat says. “Well, about how mollusks evolved central nervous systems independently of vertebrates, and what that can tell us about what it means to have a mind.”
“Like, I think therefore I am, but for an octopus?”
Patroclus laughs.
“Yes, like I think therefore I am but for an octopus.”
“Mmm.”
Achilles settles his head back, closes his eyes. Even with them closed, the light streaming from between the tree leaves glows through his eyelids. It’s a warm, yellowy complement to the blue sky and green grass; it’s the kind of day so bright that you can’t block the colors out even if you try. He takes out one airpod, starts listening to the Chamber Orchestra of London.
“You’re not reading,” he says to Patroclus, after a moment.
“You’re--distracting.” Neither one of them needs to address how Achilles knew this without looking up. They’ve always been this way.
“Me? More distracting than octopus brains?” He laughs, stretches his legs, bare in his running shorts, feels Patroclus’ gaze over them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes,” Pat’s voice drips with dryness, “you’ve always been such a stranger to attention, it’s no wonder you wouldn’t recognize it. Nobody gives you enough attention.”
“That’s what they say about me.”
“That’s what everyone says?”
“Indeed.”
“How very sad for you.”
“It’s a lonely life, darling.”
“Hmm,” Pat hums, as if considering deeply. “If only someone would come wait for you after your rehearsals, all the way across campus from their med lectures, just to see your face twenty minutes earlier than they would have. Then surely you’d feel loved.”
Achilles warms, pleasantly overwhelmed with Pat’s affection; somehow still startled at the strength of it. Still, after all this time. He thinks about dragging him home right then and there, but he’s not quite ready to give up this moment just yet.
“I would, then, feel very loved,” he says quietly. “Go back to your books. I’ll try and be less distracting.”
He does try to settle, a little. There’s a part of Achilles that’s nearly always buzzing, whispering go, go, go, but if there’s ever an afternoon that could quiet it, it would be this one. If there’s ever a person who can quiet it, it’s Patroclus. The breeze is moving through Achilles’ hair where it spreads on Pat’s legs, moving just slightly with his breathing. Pat is wearing pants, because of course he is, but he’s kicked off his shoes, and Achilles runs a hand appreciatively over one bare foot. The skin at the top is soft, and the bottoms aren’t tough from running like Achilles’ own. Much of Patroclus is soft--his round shoulders, his skin, his lips perennially swollen from being bitten in concentration. Even his temperament is decidedly gentle. Some would call him withdrawn, but Achilles knows he just warms up when he wants to. He keeps himself like a gift.
“What are you listening to?” Patroclus asks, and when Achilles opens an eye, the book has been laid down in the grass. Achilles takes out the other airpod, hands it over wordlessly. Together they listen to the violins, all coming together in a seamless sea. Achilles can play this suite with his eyes closed; in fact, he often does. He’s been working it over obsessively, and when he’s not practicing its become the soundtrack to their life--moving around them as they hang up laundry, make tea, cook breakfast; as they tease, laugh, study, rehearse, fuck, wrestle, kiss and cuddle. He knows his part back and forward and he’s been told he can make one violin sound like twenty. But Achilles is still only one man. He longs to be among others who are on his level.
It’s why he spends all his time with Pat.
“ The Architect again?” Patroclus asks. “I almost thought you’d be tired of it by now.”
He’s teasing; he knows Achilles is insatiable.
“I know what I like,” Achilles answers. “So sue me.”
“Do you now?”
When Achilles opens his eyes again, Patroclus is smiling fully, relaxed and easy like he so seldom is. A butterfly wings past him. He doesn't notice. Framed by leaves, dappled with light, his eyes are dark and sweet. His serious eyebrows are not so serious. Yes, Achilles does know what he likes. He knows it well.
“I read something today about cuttlefish--” Pat says suddenly. “That I thought you would like.”
“In your octopus book?” Achilles teases.
“In my octopus book, yes,” Patroclus nods, “about their skins?”
“Tell me.”
“They’re able to turn all these different colors at once, thousands of different colors and patterns. It evolved originally to be camouflage, but now you’ve essentially got a screen that’s connected directly to their brain. So it’s almost always changing color, these brilliant displays that really don’t have a purpose, scientifically speaking. Sometimes they’re just changing a little bit, like it's unconscious, like you can tell that they’re thinking.” Pat considers for a moment, lost in his thoughts. “So evolution has created this very expressive thing, kind of by happenstance. And it was making me think, because it was evolved to put this creature at the top of the food chain. But instead it turned into something really beautiful. And sometimes, creatures can be meant to be one thing, and they’re just not. The same mechanism becomes something gentler instead. Does that make sense?”
Achilles’ throat has tightened, and he realizes he’s forgotten to breathe. He thinks of his parents, of the empty frames on the walls where his war medals are supposed to go. Of the West Point scholarship he turned down. And yes, he knows exactly what Patroclus is saying. He knows Pat is thinking of these things, too. He nods.
“Yes, I think it makes perfect sense.” Pat smiles again at the familiar sensation of being understood. Achilles puts a hand up to Pat’s cheek, runs it down his jaw to his neck and lower to take a palmful of his shirt. He pulls him down until he’s bent double into the kiss. He lets himself drink from the gentler side of himself.
When he speaks again, his nose rests against Patroclus’ nose; his smile rests against Patroclus’ breath.
“I think I’m ready to go home now,” he says.
“You think so?”
He nods. Kisses Pat again and doesn’t want to let up.
“You’ll have to let go of me then,” Patroclus says. Achilles laughs, a bright and twinkling thing, and instead clutches tighter.
“Never.”