Fic: Scars (Achilleus/Patroklos)
May. 4th, 2006 08:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zTitle: Scars
Warnings: slash
Characters: Achilleus/Patroklos
Summary: When Patroklos is hurt, it is Achilleus who bleeds.
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fanfic100 prompt 50 "touch." My table is here. And no, I haven’t given up on this—only 96 or so more to go.
The fighting is long over by the time Achilleus returns to the Myrmidon camp. As he would expect, things are already well in order. The wounded and dead being seen to, the men being fed, broken equipment being repaired.
He pays barely any attention to it, intent as he is on his destination. Patroklos is outside their tent talking to one of the smiths, the two of them beside Achilleus's chariot. The chariot took some damage today, but nothing that cannot be repaired. It is only wood and metal, after all.
Patroklos smiles at Achilleus’s approach, but then turns back to the smith, who is promising that the chariot will be repaired by morning.
Achilleus does not smile in return, but stalks straight into the tent, knowing that Patroklos will follow. Neither of them speak a word as Patroklos helps Achilleus remove his blood-caked armor. Patroklos has already removed his own and his hair is still damp from washing.
Naked, Achilleus steps out of the tent long enough to dump a bucket of water over his head, sluicing off the worst of the blood from his skin and hair, but then he cannot wait any longer.
He turns back into the tent and without a pause in his stride bears Patroklos back onto the furs that serve them as their bed. He immediately exposes the flesh of Patroklos's right side. Unbroken, but not unblemished, the dark colors are already blooming under the skin. He stares hard at the spreading bruises, jaw bunching as he clenches and unclenches his teeth.
Patroklos keeps silent, but his hand strokes through Achilleus's wet hair.
It had been a near thing. Achilleus can see it even now. With Patroklos driving the chariot, it is left to Achilleus to protect him. He very nearly failed today. The blow had landed while Achilleus was killing another Trojan, and only Patroklos's own agility had saved him from being cut in half. It was a move that should have been impossible, should have set the chariot over, but Patroklos had managed it—the immortal horses responding to his call because they love him. Achilleus had immediately killed the man who had dared to strike at Patroklos, but that would have been little consolation if Patroklos had bled.
Achilleus remains crouched over Patroklos, his wet hair still dripping, so the drops, tinged red with blood, fall like tears on Patroklos's face. Achilleus stares hard into familiar dark eyes that look back at him so calmly. Some of the clamoring wildness in him stills at that look, and he takes a long, slow breath.
When the violence in him is banked, he then reaches for Patroklos's wrists and with gentle force pushes them down so that his friend's hands rest above his head. He starts with the scar on Patroklos's arm. It was the first mark, old and faded, barely visible; the first time that Patroklos bled because Achilleus failed to keep him safe. He kisses the mark, running lips and tongue over it, and Patroklos shivers beneath him, dark lashes fluttering closed, like the soft brush of a bird's wing.
Achilleus finds each of the others in turn. Each a memory of a time that Patroklos has bled. He knows these marks. He was present when each wound was dealt to Patroklos's soft flesh. Each is scored into his mind as a memory of pain and his own failure. He tended to the healing of most of them himself, too. They are the memories that make up his darkest moments.
He cannot bleed himself, but he cannot imagine that any pain could be worse than watching the blood flow from Patroklos's body.
He keeps his hands gentle as he pays homage to those reminders, mouthing warm, living flesh with reverence. It is almost a ritual now, this mapping of flesh, performed each time death dares to turn his profligate eye on Achilleus's Patroklos.
Most of the time, Achilleus believes, knows, that, while he has chosen his fate to die here at the walls of Troy, he will keep Patroklos safe, and that Patroklos will return home and raise Achilleus's son and take care of both their aging fathers. Gentle Patroklos was never meant to die here.
But in these moments when he is reminded that Patroklos's flesh is no more invulnerable than that of the men Achilleus kills so easily, Achilleus knows rare fear, fear that he feels at nothing else, not even his own promised death.
Patroklos will not be allowed to die. And it is Achilleus who will make sure of it. He only needs to remember this time and never be so careless again.
Patroklos shakes under him, but he knows better than to move until Achilleus has loved each mark, each assurance that Patroklos has lived to heal. Achilleus ends where he began, at the new bruise rising under Patroklos's skin. He kisses that mark too, although this one will fade without leaving another reminder, and then he turns his attention away.
Patroklos cries out when Achilleus's hot mouth envelopes him, and under Achilleus's attention he will not last long. Unable to keep his hands still, his long fingers rise to clench in Achilleus's hair and then his body arches up and he screams, as though in pain.
Achilleus waits until the trembling stills into relaxed lassitude before he levers himself up to kiss Patroklos's mouth at last. He is gentle and so very careful as he takes his own pleasure. Although Patroklos's body has long since grown accustomed to accommodating his own, he moves as though afraid Patroklos is a breakable thing, not a warrior, honed to follow Achilleus as he rushes into battle.
Achilleus does not make a sound as he comes, only draws in a breath that might have been a sob in another man.
He collapses then on Patroklos, his face buried in the warm flesh of Patroklos's neck. He does not move, except for a fine trembling that shakes his body, imperceptible to the eye, but evident to the man who lies pressed to the length of his flesh.
Now it is Patroklos whose hands are gentle, Patroklos who strokes Achilleus as though it is Achilleus who is the most delicate and fragile thing in the world.
Warnings: slash
Characters: Achilleus/Patroklos
Summary: When Patroklos is hurt, it is Achilleus who bleeds.
Notes: For
fanfic100 prompt 50 "touch." My table is here. And no, I haven’t given up on this—only 96 or so more to go. The fighting is long over by the time Achilleus returns to the Myrmidon camp. As he would expect, things are already well in order. The wounded and dead being seen to, the men being fed, broken equipment being repaired.
He pays barely any attention to it, intent as he is on his destination. Patroklos is outside their tent talking to one of the smiths, the two of them beside Achilleus's chariot. The chariot took some damage today, but nothing that cannot be repaired. It is only wood and metal, after all.
Patroklos smiles at Achilleus’s approach, but then turns back to the smith, who is promising that the chariot will be repaired by morning.
Achilleus does not smile in return, but stalks straight into the tent, knowing that Patroklos will follow. Neither of them speak a word as Patroklos helps Achilleus remove his blood-caked armor. Patroklos has already removed his own and his hair is still damp from washing.
Naked, Achilleus steps out of the tent long enough to dump a bucket of water over his head, sluicing off the worst of the blood from his skin and hair, but then he cannot wait any longer.
He turns back into the tent and without a pause in his stride bears Patroklos back onto the furs that serve them as their bed. He immediately exposes the flesh of Patroklos's right side. Unbroken, but not unblemished, the dark colors are already blooming under the skin. He stares hard at the spreading bruises, jaw bunching as he clenches and unclenches his teeth.
Patroklos keeps silent, but his hand strokes through Achilleus's wet hair.
It had been a near thing. Achilleus can see it even now. With Patroklos driving the chariot, it is left to Achilleus to protect him. He very nearly failed today. The blow had landed while Achilleus was killing another Trojan, and only Patroklos's own agility had saved him from being cut in half. It was a move that should have been impossible, should have set the chariot over, but Patroklos had managed it—the immortal horses responding to his call because they love him. Achilleus had immediately killed the man who had dared to strike at Patroklos, but that would have been little consolation if Patroklos had bled.
Achilleus remains crouched over Patroklos, his wet hair still dripping, so the drops, tinged red with blood, fall like tears on Patroklos's face. Achilleus stares hard into familiar dark eyes that look back at him so calmly. Some of the clamoring wildness in him stills at that look, and he takes a long, slow breath.
When the violence in him is banked, he then reaches for Patroklos's wrists and with gentle force pushes them down so that his friend's hands rest above his head. He starts with the scar on Patroklos's arm. It was the first mark, old and faded, barely visible; the first time that Patroklos bled because Achilleus failed to keep him safe. He kisses the mark, running lips and tongue over it, and Patroklos shivers beneath him, dark lashes fluttering closed, like the soft brush of a bird's wing.
Achilleus finds each of the others in turn. Each a memory of a time that Patroklos has bled. He knows these marks. He was present when each wound was dealt to Patroklos's soft flesh. Each is scored into his mind as a memory of pain and his own failure. He tended to the healing of most of them himself, too. They are the memories that make up his darkest moments.
He cannot bleed himself, but he cannot imagine that any pain could be worse than watching the blood flow from Patroklos's body.
He keeps his hands gentle as he pays homage to those reminders, mouthing warm, living flesh with reverence. It is almost a ritual now, this mapping of flesh, performed each time death dares to turn his profligate eye on Achilleus's Patroklos.
Most of the time, Achilleus believes, knows, that, while he has chosen his fate to die here at the walls of Troy, he will keep Patroklos safe, and that Patroklos will return home and raise Achilleus's son and take care of both their aging fathers. Gentle Patroklos was never meant to die here.
But in these moments when he is reminded that Patroklos's flesh is no more invulnerable than that of the men Achilleus kills so easily, Achilleus knows rare fear, fear that he feels at nothing else, not even his own promised death.
Patroklos will not be allowed to die. And it is Achilleus who will make sure of it. He only needs to remember this time and never be so careless again.
Patroklos shakes under him, but he knows better than to move until Achilleus has loved each mark, each assurance that Patroklos has lived to heal. Achilleus ends where he began, at the new bruise rising under Patroklos's skin. He kisses that mark too, although this one will fade without leaving another reminder, and then he turns his attention away.
Patroklos cries out when Achilleus's hot mouth envelopes him, and under Achilleus's attention he will not last long. Unable to keep his hands still, his long fingers rise to clench in Achilleus's hair and then his body arches up and he screams, as though in pain.
Achilleus waits until the trembling stills into relaxed lassitude before he levers himself up to kiss Patroklos's mouth at last. He is gentle and so very careful as he takes his own pleasure. Although Patroklos's body has long since grown accustomed to accommodating his own, he moves as though afraid Patroklos is a breakable thing, not a warrior, honed to follow Achilleus as he rushes into battle.
Achilleus does not make a sound as he comes, only draws in a breath that might have been a sob in another man.
He collapses then on Patroklos, his face buried in the warm flesh of Patroklos's neck. He does not move, except for a fine trembling that shakes his body, imperceptible to the eye, but evident to the man who lies pressed to the length of his flesh.
Now it is Patroklos whose hands are gentle, Patroklos who strokes Achilleus as though it is Achilleus who is the most delicate and fragile thing in the world.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-05-05 01:51 am (UTC)At any rate - I have to tell you something that really just gets me - and I don't know if this bugs you or not - but because of that damn horrid film Troy I have to fight with myself to not think of Brad Pitt. Your images are so much more wonderful. And perhaps actually a little more based on the myth? *laughs*
Really lovely work, hon.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-05 02:09 am (UTC)So, personally, I'm totally (and happily) NOT picturing Mr. Pitt. In Manslayer, I've described Achilleus as having red hair (it's suggested in the Iliad that he does) and gold eyes (that I think I made up)--if that visualization helps. I'm not completely sticking to the myth (which is actually impossible to do, since there are different (inconsistent) versions, but I'm certainly drawing from the mythology and I hope I'm closer to it than Troy was. ; ) Not like that's really hard. :p
Thanks for reading and I'm glad you liked it. : )
no subject
Date: 2006-05-05 02:53 am (UTC)I've read a few different versions of this story - not in a long time, but I was fascinated by Greek myth as a kid (check out my last name - sigh). I haven't read any of the Iliad since High School either. If I can muddle my way through Malory I guess I should try Homer again. :p
But I digress. Lovely, angsty fic. Enjoyed it.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-05 03:20 am (UTC)Homer is not quite as cracktastic (IMHO) as Malory, but is fantastically brilliant. I'll admit that Homer can move me to tears, while Malory just makes me snicker, but as you know, I'm a big fan of both. : )
no subject
Date: 2006-05-06 03:32 pm (UTC)And the ritual of kissing each scar is a nice touch.
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Date: 2006-05-06 11:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-20 07:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-20 05:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-13 05:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-13 09:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-20 11:27 am (UTC)*sending good writing wibes your way*
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Date: 2008-07-10 04:46 am (UTC)Gorgeous.
The relationship is... perfect. So beyond perfect.
I'm off to read your rest.
no subject
Date: 2008-07-11 03:56 pm (UTC)Thanks for commenting!
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Date: 2009-03-04 06:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-05 06:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-01 06:35 am (UTC)