The truth untold - Patrochilles

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Mornings are always the best part, Patroclus thinks. 

The vast chamber is filled with soft snores and the constant echoes of the shore. At the early hour, the world still drown in gloom, a soul is awake. It lies in silence, not to disturb the peace of the sleeping boy, watching intently as the first ray of sunshine falls upon golden curls of hair, a gentle, yet sharp slump of the nose, crimson lips. It illuminates the lines of a body taught with muscles, yet lean and elegant like a cat's, skin shining in the morning light. Patroclus' heart skips a beat as he notices the flutter of pretty eyelashes, anticipation seeping into his mind and body as he prepares to witness the awaited moment. 

Achilles' breath hitches, and finally brown eyes meet bright, emerald ones. 

"Good morning", says Patroclus with a smile tugging at his lips. He can't help, but let his gaze linger a little while longer on the other's face, simply admiring the astonishing beauty of the golden-haired boy. 

"Good morning", follows the reply of a voice still laced with sleep. 

In a rustle of sheets and quiet footsteps on the tiled floor, Patroclus founds himself enveloped in the familiar heat of a body pressing against his own. Sighing contently, he lets himself bask in the musky scent of sandalwood and olive oil, lets himself melt into the warm embrace, lets his heart beat its own, sporadic melody. 

Time stops, as soft lips meet. 

Their mouths dance against each other, rhythm slow and steady, until the exchange becomes less lips, more grins and the clashing of teeth. The two boys just lay, breathing the same air and enjoying the moment. 

"What are you thinking about", Achilles breaks the comfortable silence that settled between them. 

You, always you. 

"The breakfast", Patroclus replies simply. The thoughts he has, the desires he holds, he buries them at the bottom of his heart and lets the truth stay unspoken. Perhaps, his gaze says more than his words do, as he sees Achilles smile fondly at him, before his expression morphs into one of melancholy. Needless to say, they have always understood each other without even having to speak. 

A hand, calloused from clutching the spear, brushes against Patroclus' blushing cheek. 

They both know what this means. 

The world shifts and dissolves around them.