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Antilokhos wants to slow down the horses, speeding too quickly towards the Myrmidon camp. He cannot yell out commands; his throat too choked by the tears sticking to his mouth. Aias had yelled it haphazardly, like he didn’t know he was saying. He didn’t seem to, come to think of it.
Antilokhos had, at the detriment his own wellness, seen a glance of it, between the bodies of the Akhaians warding Trojans off their treasure, like bees to honey. Patroklos was stripped nude, his skin almost vibrant, but greying and bloodless. He was lying limp, blood blooming on his abdomen like the roses that had grown from beautiful Adonis.
Akhilleus is sitting calmly back at camp, his robes resting heavily on his shoulders, flowing off the chair he sits in. He is softly smiling, murmuring something under his breath. Antilokhos knows that he is not truly calm, though it comforts him to imagine himself as something he is not.
Akhilleus opens his eyes slightly, his lashes hiding his iris. He struggles to keep his smile up.
Antilokhos swings down from his chariot, walking towards Akhilleus with steady steps. He takes the best breaths he can, though shaky and teary.
Akhilleus rises, as though to greet him. He speaks before Antilokhos can muster the courage. "The ships are free from the Trojans that plagued them." He gestures to the beach, as though Antilokhos wouldn't know what he speaks of. Akhilleus takes a deep breath, meeting Antilokhos' gaze with eyes that burn. "All thanks to my Patroklos."
Antilokhos breathes in sharply, his jaw trembling. "Y-yes. Patroklos…" He glances away.
Akhilleus steps forward, his jewellery jingling softly, rythmically. It is calming. Akhilleus was trying to keep himself calm while Patroklos was gone. Antilokhos feels hands, slender and calloused, rest featherlight on his cheeks. He tilts Antilokhos' face to look at him, at his weary gaze. "Speak, Antilokhos."
Antilokhos kept his gaze, the gaze of the man he holds so tear to his heart, the gaze he would never wish to fill with tears. "Oh, my heart…" He whispers, watching Akhilleus' expression. "The worst has happened."
"Patroklos is dead." Antilokhos whispers, like a tiny needle pressing into Akhilleus ear.
Akhilleus barks out a laugh. "Why do you lie to me?" He hisses. He trusted Antilokhos. He trusted Antilokhos to prevent this. He trusted Antilokhos to tell him the truth.
Akhilleus breaks from Antilokhos' grasp, tearing his eyes from that traitorous gaze. Antilokhos exhales, looking around for a moment. "No, Akhilleus-"
"YOU LIE!" Akhilleus turns back from his pacing, spitting at Antilokhos. Rage tears at his chest, burning up his throat like vomit. The weight of his prayers pin his tongue down, the sky laughs at him. Patroklos is not dead. Antilokhos is cruel, so cruel. He lies. He's lying.
"Akhilleus…" Antilokhos' voice is soft, hardly audible over Akhilleus' beating heart. Akhilleus turns to him, holding his breath for all this to be some joke. All he sees is Antilokhos' gentle, sympathetic smile.
His throat tears open and his gut boils as something ancient and primal bursts from his chest; a scream. He keels over and fire drips from his lips. His ears ache; he cannot hear himself. Something beneath him trembles, though he is unsure if that is the ground or his own unsteady feet. His body shakes, curling into itself as he searches for something to grab onto, something to weather the storm with.
His knees hit the ground and the pain tastes like honey. He claws at the ground, the stable ground that tethers him to his waning mortality. The ground that may have echoed softly with the thud of Patroklos' corpse as he went limp. Akhilleus tears at himself, breathing in the sweet filth of the undying earth in his hands.
His scream is raspy and tired. He pulls at his hair, trying to rip it out. He cannot see; tears too gentle to be from his own unholy eyes drip at his knees. His long hair grows grimy in his grip, tearing from his scalp, a part separated from the whole.
"Akhilleus…"
Akhilleus screams, shaking his head. He can hear Patroklos' sweet voice, divine music that should not have been wasted on Akhilleus flithy ears. A voice that should be singing his name long after Akhilleus is gone.
He claws at his chest, fumbling with his tunic until his trembling fingers kiss the metal of his blade, weighing on his hip.
"Akhilleus!"
Patroklos' soft hands cover his own, holding his knife firmly where he can't reach it. Patroklos' chest, pressed against his back, rises with warm and lively breaths. Akhilleus chokes on his own scream as salty tears wet his lips. He blinks up against the harsh sun to see Antilokhos' bastardly face looking at him like he is some sobbing toddler, someone to pity.
"Let go of me…" Akhilleus coughs on his tears, fighting weakly against Antilokhos' grip. He may have not plunged the blade into Patroklos' abdomen, he was as good as a murderer to him. He tries to scream, to call for his Patroklos to find him. But his voice burns deep in his chest, warning him against it. Akhilleus sobs noiselessly, his tears wiped away by a soft thumb, cradling his face as though he is something precious.
Akhilleus squints up at Antilokhos. He is smiling. Akhilleus wants to laugh. Patroklos is dead, and Antilokhos is smiling.
Patroklos is dead.
Akhilleus sniffles, tears warming his cheeks. Antilokhos' lips softly graze his own, and Akhilleus remembers the warmth of his beloved's mouth, his sweet smell, his soft hands, his smile. His smile…
Akhilleus coughs up another sob, a tear sliding down his cheek, and Antilokhos kisses it away. Akhilleus leans into Antilokhos' gentle embrace. How can someone be gentle when something such as this has happened?
Patroklos is dead.