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Achilles was the greatest Greek hero to fight in the war, and that was how he was to be known. He was to be remembered for the blood that stained his hands. That blood that he diligently washed off before even considering touching Patroclus. They both knew what he was capable of, and though Patroclus was certainly no stranger to the battlefield himself, Achilles did not want to leave that mark of cruelty and violence on his lover’s soul. Achilles was always gentle with Patroclus.
When the fighting ended for the day, Achilles made a beeline to the beach to clean his hands. The rest of his body could wait, but the dried blood coating his fingers required immediate attention. He didn’t know where Patroclus was when the soldiers ceased their battle, but it didn’t matter because if something dire had happened, he would have known already, known in his heart. Patroclus was bound to be somewhere in one of the camps, Achilles hoped he’d find him with the Myrmidons, so Patroclus could help free him from the armor that built a wall as strong as that of Troy between himself and the gore he was responsible for.
As soon as he reached the beach, Achilles knelt down and ran his hands back and forth through the cold water. He always preferred the rush of cold from the sea to water from a basin. It reminded him of his mother. Achilles smiled as he saw the red rinse from his hands into the water; he could go look for Patroclus.
When he made it back to the center of the camp, he asked around, but none of the Myrmidons had seen Patroclus in at least a few hours. As he wandered around the sea of tents, Achilles’ armor became increasingly uncomfortable, and because of it, he was inclined to retreat to his and Patroclus’ shared tent to change into anything else. He would still need to wash his hair and polish the blood off the gold of his armor.
Sure enough, when he entered the tent, he found exactly who he was hoping would join him sitting on their bed. Patroclus did not acknowledge Achilles, and as he approached closer, Achilles found Patroclus’ eyes were closed. He was resting, his left arm bandaged and cradled on his chest. Leaning down, Achilles brushed stray hairs from Patroclus’ forehead, and it was enough to wake him.
Patroclus hummed, “Is that you Achilles?” He leaned into Achilles’ touch.
“Yes, love, it’s me.”
Patroclus’ eyes fluttered open as Achilles looked down at him, gaze softened entirely from what it had been just a few hours earlier.
“What happened to your arm?”
Sitting up a bit too quickly brought out a wince of pain, and Patroclus clutched his arm harder. He smiled to Achilles, who had kneeled for further inspection, “Oh, I just had a minor run in with a Trojan sword. It’s really fine.”
“May I see it?”
Patroclus twisted so that Achilles could remove the bandage. He took Patroclus’ arm in his hand and unwound the cloth, revealing a large cut of about six inches that ran down from just above his elbow.
“Oh, Patroclus, this looks awful,” Achilles shook his head, his heart pounding hard enough to make his hands tremble lightly. It was funny, the things that could get Achilles shaky. Not once had he hesitated while in the midst of battle, but the mere thought of harm coming to Patroclus was enough to work him into a sweat.
“No, it should be fine,” Patroclus’ eyes were still tired. Achilles set the bandage aside and lightly let go of Patroclus’ arm. He stood up and brushed dust from himself. Patroclus looked up at him once more, “You should take your armor off. Just be Achilles for me, please?”
He nodded and began to disarm, starting with his helmet. Achilles’ helmet was what really sold the character of the merciless and divine killer to enemy soldiers; as soon as he removed it, he was humanized. Piece by piece, Achilles got closer to being the man reserved for Patroclus’ love and his love alone. When he was finished, he wore a light chiton and the armor sat in a pile on the ground, waiting to be cleaned. In turn, Achilles picked up a small piece of clean cloth, which he held close to his chest.
“I’m going to go wash off. Would you be okay to just rest here until I return?”
“Mhm,” Patroclus nodded, his eyes closed again. His arm uncovered still, waiting for Achilles to tend to it.
Achilles was quick, just taking enough time to properly remove any dried blood caked on his skin or in his hair. Usually, Patroclus would help him clean his hair, taking extra care to prevent any tangles in those beautiful golden locks he loved so much. Patroclus would card his fingers through Achilles’ hair, assuring that anything that might have gotten caught during the day’s fighting would be gone by the time they retired for the night. Achilles gave his hair far less attention, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make in order to return to his lover sooner. Before leaving the beach, Achilles soaked the cloth in the cool water. He twisted it to squeeze out any excess and started to walk back to the tent.
Patroclus was asleep just as he had been when Achilles first discovered him on the bed.
“Darling,” Achilles whispered to prevent jostling Patroclus too violently into the waking world. He waited until Patroclus opened his eyes and twisted his neck to look at Achilles, “Would you let me clean your wound?”
Patroclus nodded and lifted his arm up, a gesture for Achilles to come tend to him. Achilles approached and sat on their bed softly, not wanting to cause too abrupt of a weight shift. He wrapped the cloth around his hand and began making light taps on Patrolus’ arm. Achilles started above the wound, allowing Patroclus to flinch and then adjust to the cool temperature of the water before it hit the sensitive skin of the open wound.
“When did you disappear from the field today?” Achilles’ voice was still quiet.
“Couldn’t have been much earlier than fighting ceased. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was,” Patroclus glanced down to his arm as Achilles continued to pat it, the cloth getting darker each time it was lifted, “My arm was bleeding quite a bit, and Odysseus saw and sent me to have it checked out. He said something about not knowing what you’d do if you found out he let me bleed to death from a cut,” Patroclus laughed lightly, but Achilles pursed his lips.
“I don’t know what I’d do either.” He sighed and went back to work.
“Hey,” Patroclus brushed Achilles’ hair over his shoulder with his good arm, “He was just joking. You know how Odysseus is. I was fine and still am.”
Achilles remained silent, hard at work with his cloth. The cut would soon be completely cleaned and in need of new dressing.
“Achilles,” Patroclus looked at him, waiting for his eyes to be met, “Achilles, I love you so. I would appreciate if you would please look up at me,” he cupped Achilles’ cheek in his hand and tilted his head up.
Achilles smiled, but his eyes lacked the spark of genuine delight.
“Come on, please speak to me. You’d be sad that you couldn’t if I really was dead.”
He stopped moving the cloth and let out a small but real laugh, “Don’t you know I’d follow you and have a word with Hades himself before I just let you die on me? It’s not allowed.”
“Oh, really?” Patroclus brushed his thumb across Achilles’ cheek before Achilles stood up from the bed.
“Yeah, really. It’s not permitted.” Achilles bustled around the tent, setting down the bloodied cloth and picking up an old chiton from early in the war, when he was but a teenager seeking the glory he had been promised. He tore the fabric and returned to his previous place on the bed, “Would you let me wrap it?”
“Mhm,” Patroclus nodded again.
Achilles went to work, ever gentle with Patroclus, paying careful attention to what movements caused even the slightest of distress in reaction. Once the entire wound had been properly covered, he tied the fabric off, so it wouldn’t fall off in Patroclus’ sleep.
“You’re so good to me,” Patroclus smiled as Achilles leaned down to kiss the hand of his hurt arm before crawling up to lay next to him.
“I only give you what you deserve,” Achilles wrapped his arms around Patroclus’ waist. The two nestled together on their bed and dozed off into sleep. When Patroclus woke in the night hungry, having not eaten much during the day, Achilles was out to get some bread and fruit left over from dinner, and they had a small feast in their tent.
Achilles’ name would go down in history because of all that he could do on the battlefield, but what truly made him Achilles was the way he treated Patroclus. He was soft spoken and gentle with Patroclus, and that was what made Patroclus love him.