Cleansing

Correction: it was SUPPOSED to be a one-shot, but I got bored with my other story and decided to have some more fun with these two! And I know there’s a lot of bathing in my stories, but every time they go to battle, they’re clean, and every time they come back, they’re filthy, so they must clean themselves sometime!

This has now become an attempt to shed some light on what must have beegardgarded as the “regular” years of the war—the years when they had been fighting for some time without conclusive results, but long before Achilles and Agamemnon quarreled. There must have surely been some downtime, in ten years of war!

Also, sorry if the battle scenes are a bit crap…I think that me trying to write war is probably like a virgin trying to write sex, so go easy on me.

PS: I kept their appearances rel relative ages from the movie, because Brad Pitt and Garrett Hedlund are hot, and I think Patroclus would be cute younger than Achilles, but the rest of the canon stuff, like, I don’t know, the fact that they’re LOVERS, I took from the Iliad.

PPS: This story has only been continued because of my lovely reviewers. Each chapter will only be posted by popular demand!

(*Still giggling whenever she hears the word “cousin”*)

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Peace never lasted long enough. All too soon, a call to arms was sounded, piercing through the still night, blasting the dreamy sleepiness that engulfed the lovers to pieces. Achilles awoks hes he always did, with a violent start, fortunately towards the door this time and away from Patroclus. All too often, Patroclus had been awakened not by the bugle call, but by an elbow in his stomach or a knee in his side.

He lurched up from the bed of furs, rubbing the lingering effects of sleep from his eyes, and struggled to find Achilles’ armor as the warrior tied his greaves onto his calves. Patroclus, unlike Achilles, had never quite mastered the art of waking immediately, but still managed to force his groggy limbs into some semblance of working order, as he dressed and buckled Achilles into his armor.

As he finished his friend’s last fastening, he turned to make himself ready, but Achilles caught his hand, pulling him close for a quick kiss. Patroclus, surprised, eagerly returned the gesture before gathering up his own gear. Usually, Achilles wasn’t amorously inclined until evening, but Patroclus wasn’t going to complain.

After they had donned their gear, they put on their helmets and headed for the battlefield. Achilles murmured to his companion as they ran ahead of the squad of Myrmidons, “I want you to stay close to the others. No striking out on your own. Eudoras is a good fighter, and he’ll protect you.”

Patroclus hissed back, “I’ve been fighting for years, Achilles. I don’t need protecting!”

They cleared the edge of the camp, spotting the front lines in the distance, before the Trojan walls. Achilles caught his friend’s arm as they ran, saying, “I know you don’t, and I know you’re a good soldier. I just don’t want to lose you.”

They neared spear-range, and Patroclus knew that his lover’s mind would soon have room for nothing but blood and battle-lust, so he spoke quickly. “I know. I’ll be careful if you’ll be the same.”

His only reply was the flash of a grin, and then the battle was on. Achilles predictably charged headlong into the fray, gleaming with glory in the pre-dawn light, his deadly spear toppling Trojans unlucky enough to stray into his path.

Patroclus and the rest of the Myrmidons dashed in close on the heels of their leader, ducking the fatal rain of arrows to join the battle. Sword drawn, Patroclus picked his first target, a sturdy-looking man with telltale scars decorating every inch of his body. The man lunged at him, and Patroclus ducked, at the same time thrusting forward with his sword and impaling the man. As the man fell and gurgled his last breath, Patroclus wrenched out his sword and pressed forward, narrowly dodging a spear throw.

He would have liked to catch a glimpse of Achilles, just to be sure that the legendary warrior was still on his feet, but there was no time for distractions. Just then, a mountain of a man, Lycian by the look of him, charged Patroclus, wielding an enormous club. Patroclus blocked the man’s first blow with his shield, and the shock reverberated through his entire body. He leapt aside just in time to avoid the brute's second blow, and picked up a fallen spear, warily studying his opponent. The Lycian was strong, yes, and certainly had the advantage in size, weight, and years, but seemed to lack any real technique in his movements other than bashing. Quickly, before the giant had time to ready another swing, Patroclus closed on him, intending to skewer his opponent on his found spear, but the man suddenly transferred his club to the other hand and caught Patroclus by the throat, lifting him clean off the ground.

Just as the edges of Patroclus’ vision started to go dark, he felt the giant's hand around his neck go slack. Patroclus collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. Through blurred vision, he saw the Lycian fall to his knees with a spear through his stomach. Eudoras stood over him.

Achilles’ lieutenant helped Patroclus to his feet, then shouted in his ear to be heard over the clash of weaponry, “Get back to the camp!”

Patroclus shook his head fiercely, which proved to be a bad idea, as his vision dimmed and he nearly collapsed, grasping Eudoras’ shoulder for support. Mustering his strength, he shouted back, “I can still fight!”

Eudoras was prevented from replying by suddenly having to dodge a sword thrust, but Patroclus quickly ran the man through with the spear he still clutched in his hand, then cried out in sudden pain as an arrow pierced the flesh of his side above his hip.

“Patroclus!” Eudoras, doubtless under orders from Achilles to keep him from any harm, grabbed him around the waist and hauled him bodily through the battlefield, making for the medical tent.

Inside the tent, Patroclus drifted in and out of consciousness, thanks to a foul brew the healers made him drink. He was dimly aware of his own voice screaming from time to time as the medics removed the arrow and cleansed the wound, but didn’t really regain consciousness until late in the afternoon.

The first thing that his addled brain registered was that he was no longer in the medical tent, but in Achilles’ tent. The second thing that his mind registered was Achilles, cursing and mumbling as he paced the length of the tent.

“’Chilles?” he murmured, confused to see his friend off the battlefield. He tried to sit up, but was prevented by a blinding pain in his side, and immediately lay prone again.

Achilles had turned sharply at the sound of his voice, and was at his bedside in a flash, leaning over him. There was concern in his eyes, but anger in his voice. “I warned you! I warned you to be careful! This is your way of being careful? Being shot? Why can’t you even take care of yourself?!”

Patroclus didn’t bother defending himself; he knew that this was just Achilles’ way of caring for someone. It was a bit dysfunctional, but it was Achilles’ way, and he wouldn’t change a thing about him. He merely lay silent as his lover continued to rage at him, alternately scoffing and gesturing so wildly that Patroclus was sure he was going to break something.

Eventually, as Patroclus had known it would, Achilles’ fuming ceased, and the great warrior kneeled next to his friend, breathing a little heavily and hanging his head. He said gently, “I didn’t mean to rage at you, Patroclus.” He sighed. “I just hate not being able to watch over you all the time.”

Patroclus knew that insisting he could watch over himself would do much more harm than good at the moment, with an arrow wound still gaping in his side. He also knew that he didn’t want Achilles raging at him again, so he kept his silence, merely nodding as much as he could without moving his head too much.

As Patroclus’ eyes gradually became used to his surroundings, he realized that Achilles was still in his armor, having removed only his helmet. “Achilles,” he asked, “how long have you been here?”

Achilles followed his eyes, realizing that he was still in battle gear. As he stood to shrug his armor off, he replied indifferently, “Since midday. Perhaps four or five hours.”

Patroclus smiled wryly, realizing how totally impractical his companion was without him there to help. He winced, as he saw how dirty Achilles was, and realized that he wouldn’t be able to bathe him today. He then realized how filthy he himself must be, caked in blood and grime, and felt his skin start to crawl.

Now shed of his battle gear, Achilles saw the look on his friend’s face, and couldn’t help a small smile. He took the wash basin off of its stand, and set it down carefully next to Patroclus. Dipping the cloth in, he wrung out the excess water, and started to wash his friend’s face.

Patroclus shuddered at the cool, clean feel of the water bathing his forehead, gently nudging stray hairs back into place. The washcloth moved down, cleaning his cheeks, and nose, and lingering on his mouth. Patroclus fondly remembered the only time when he had refused Achilles a kiss; after a battle, his lover had literally had blood dripping down his face. Somehow, he had fended the brute off long enough to dunk him in the ocean. They hadn’t made it to their tent until very late that night, he recalled…

The washcloth left his lips, and he felt Achilles’ lips replace it. It seemed that every time Achilles stopped kissing him, he forgot how wonderful it was until they descended again. His lover’s tongue gently teased his lips, but when he opened his mouth, Achilles refused to enter, opting instead to continue tasting his lips, alternately licking and delicately sucking on first one, then the other.

Patroclus had quite forgotten about his ongoing bath, but Achilles had not. His lover bathed his neck, thankfully not seeing the various bruises because he was still kissing Patroclus, then moved down to his chest. In spite of his invalidish condition, Patroclus was beginning to feel aroused, and Achilles wasn’t helping matters at all.

After what seemed like an eternity, Achilles finally broke the kiss, to better see his work as he continued to bathe his lover’s chest. He gave a few wide, slow strokes, then re-dipped the cloth in the basin, wringing it out again. He dribbled a few drops of water first on one of Patroclus’ nipples, watching it harden in response, then on the other, watching it follow suit. Patroclus let out a breathy moan as Achilles dipped his head down to his lover’s chest, encircling one of the hardened buds between his lips, gently sucking like a child at his mother. All the while, the washcloth continued in slow, sensuous circles on Patroclus’ chest, in what must surely be the cleanest spot on his body. With a final suck, Achilles released one nipple, and switched to the other, at a speed so slow Patroclus was sure he would go mad from this delicious torture.

Patroclus had never known Achilles to go so slowly, or to be so gentle—Achilles was not a gentle person, on the battlefield or in the bedroom, and Patroclus had never demanded gentleness from him. Achilles was fire, passionate and absolute, and Patroclus had always been willing to accept his burns as they came. If such was the price for embracing a flame, he would pay it gladly, until the day it consumed him.

But now…how could he refuse this agony, this glorious ambrosia? As Achilles began to move farther down his body, Patroclus knew that even were he bleeding to death, he could never hope to deny his lover anything.

Achilles deftly dodged the bandage encircling his midsection, and glided down to the very tip of his friend’s body, to the bottom of his toes, paying them the same careful attention he had lavished on the rest of Patroclus. When they were clean, Achilles again wetted the cloth, and moved with a torturous slowness up his lover’s legs, leaving them glistening with fresh, cool water.

Finally, he reached his prize, as Patus pus panted desperately, dying to know what was about to happen. They had done this before, but every time it had been the other way around. Patroclus bit his lip, wondering, would he?

Oh yes, he would! Eliciting a groan from his lover, Achilles accepted the challenge laid before him like a true warrior, tentatively licking the head of Patroclus’ erection, then, finding it to his liking, engulfing it in the sweet hot cavern of his mouth. Experimentally, he swirled his tongue around the tip, smiling around his mouthful as Patroclus’ eyes rolled back into his head.

His friend was close to the edge, he knew, and he wasn’t one to torture an injured man, no matter how cruel he could be with a spear in his hand. Taking pity on his friend, he slowly lowered his head toward Patroclus’ body, taking inch by painstaking inch of his lover’s arousal deeper into his mouth, until Patroclus saw stars dancing in front of his eyes.

“Please,” he panted frantically, “Achilles, please finish me! Please!”

Patroclus tried to thrust into his lover’s mouth, but Achilles held his hips pinned to the floor—to keep him from injuring himself further. Knowing that Patroclus would soon lose control, Achilles dragged his lips back up the shaft, marveling at the feel of it in his mouth, and swallowed him whole again, making his friend cry out. Again and again he bobbed his head up and down, and again and again Patroclus pleaded for him to finish it.

For one moment, Achilles let his friend’s arousal slip from between his lips, and rasped, “Look at me, Patroclus.”

His friend wrenched his head down to see Achilles engulf him again, saw his erection disappearing in Achilles mouth, saw those golden curls moving up and down as Achilles swallowed him again and again and again, and it was too much. Patroclus moaned his lover’s name, and spilled his dee deep in Achilles’ throat, trembling as Achilles sucked him clean.

When he had recovered, Achilles crawled up his body, and whispered devilishly, “Feel any better?”

He had expected a response, but Patroclus merely smiled in his sleep. Placing a kiss on his lover’s forehead, Achilles stretched out next to him, and fell asleep himself, arm draped across his friend.