Collection of Patrochilles Shorts

Philtatos

"I'm sorry," Hector says, for what has to be the hundredth time. He's sitting in the chair opposite of Achilles, head in his hands, knuckles little patches of white against his shorn hair. "I'm so sorry--"

"We know," Briseis snaps--it's cold and sharp and Hector flinches inwards. Her bottom lip quivers, a stark contrast to the hard set of her jaw. She grasps one of Achilles' hands, tries to reassure him. But his hand in limp in hers, his eyes laser focused on the doors at the end of the hallway. "He's going to be okay," she says, pulling her friend into a one armed hug.

Achilles doesn't believe her.

When Hector had torn into his dorm room, eyes wild and shirt covered in blood, Achilles knew . As he followed Hector out into the Common and ripped through the gathering crowd to see Patroclus lying still on the pavement--he knew . He couldn't explain it, couldn't tell anyone that it was so achingly familiar, somehow--kneeling on the cement, crimson soaking through his jeans, and Pat cold to the touch under his shaking hands.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," he murmured, more a plea than anything. "I love you so you can't leave me, Patroclus. You can't leave, not yet, not like this." He'd learned on the way to the hospital that Paris had stolen some props from a local play--helmets, shields, and spears. He'd gathered everyone he could find and they'd started competitions out in the Common. Athena had practically begged Achilles to participate, especially once they started the spear throw.

"With that arm? You could take anyone!" she said, but he'd laughed and brushed her off. He was writing his last essay of the semester and he knew that if he dropped it in favor of spear throwing Patroclus would never let him live it down. So, he went back to his studies and didn't think of it again.

From what he managed to piece together, Hector was aiming for a tree almost fifty yards away. Patroclus had walked in front of him, wasn't looking in the right direction, and neither saw each other until the spear had left Hector's hand.

Achilles vaguely remembers screaming when the EMTs pulled him away to haul Patroclus into the ambulance. He knew how this story ended and there were flashes of memory, "don't let him go", "don't go, Patroclus" and "please don't take him from me." And even if the memories were old, the pain was new. It clawed its way through his chest, burning. Briseis had dragged him to her car, driven him to the hospital as he sobbed in the passenger's seat.

"He's strong," she'd said, foot bearing down on the accelerator, hands holding the steering wheel in a vice grip. "He's going to be fine, he's stubborn just like you, it's going to be okay." Achilles couldn't seem to get enough air into his lungs. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was happening again , couldn't shake the guilt that if he'd just been there, gone outside when Athena had asked that this wouldn't have happened at all.

Now they are all huddled in the hospital's waiting room as Patroclus enters his third hour of surgery. The odds aren't good--he knew that much from the horror struck faces of the ER doctors as they'd wheeled Pat away. "It almost went clean through," one woman had muttered, staring in awe at the wound.

Achilles leaps up and starts to pace, feels like he'll go crazy if he sits still for a moment longer. "We need to stay calm," Briseis tries, but Achilles ducks away from her, feet leading him to the OR doors before he stumbles to a stop and turns in the other direction. An old woman looks up at him from her chair, wary as he stomps past. He goes in circles, bites his nails, has the urge to climb out of his own skin and he can't stand the waiting.

"It was an accident," Hector mutters, as Achilles brushes by, and something dark and ugly begins to well up in Achilles' chest. He wants to overturn tables, slam through walls, shatter the glass partitions. He wants to break everything he can get his hands on--violently, irreparably. It's like there's water in his lungs, filling up his chest, crushing his heart back into his spine. He runs.

"Achilles!" Briseis shouts, but in the span of a breath Achilles is clear across the waiting room and sprinting out of the hospital.

"I didn't even get to say goodbye," he thinks, because he knows what this feeling is and he wants to outrun it. Believes for a fraction of a second that maybe he can, that if he's fast enough he can outrun this day altogether.

But another memory blindsides him and it bears Hector's voice: "And fate? No one alive has ever escaped it." * He makes it halfway across the parking lot before falling to his knees. He inhales, digs his fingers into the pavement. The sky's gone a soft grey, like it's going to snow and Achilles grips his chest with one hand, feels like the water's rising into his throat, crushing its way down into his legs. With a terrible clarity he knows what it means when his chest goes hollow--when it feels like everything inside of him has gone cold.

He blinks, stares at the bits of gravel beside his hands as the Empty overcomes him. "I didn't get to say goodbye," he thinks again, tears welling up anew. Briseis finds him a few minutes later, falls down besides him as she cries into his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," she says and he hears Hector wailing in the distance.

"Patroclus," he says, as snow begins to fall, floating down so beautifully before disappearing into the black of the asphalt. "Patroclus. Patroclus." Over and over until it is sound only.*

NOTES:

1st *: A quote from Hector found in the Illiad
2nd *: This is a line from TSoA that I've tweaked to fit the story (and who could end this story better than Madeline???) Original line: "Patroclus," he says, "Patroclus. Patroclus." Over and over until it is sound only.