#patroclus' braincells abandoning him en masse the moment achilles sheds a single tear

[johaerys-writes]

Hello! If you don't mind me asking, are you up for a WIP Sunday? I hope you have a pleasant weekend😁

Hi!! I got this ask after I'd already gone to bed (timezones 😩) so it isn’t technically a Sunday, but I can still share a snippet from the next chapter of you're a walking disaster and yet- that I've been working on :)

He reaches over Achilles to turn off the bedside lamp. They’re plunged into darkness, save for Patroclus’ tiny night light plugged into a socket next to his desk, and the glow-in-the-dark stars he and Achilles stuck on the ceiling several years back. Their glow is faint, barely there, and Patroclus has often thought that perhaps they’re too childish, perhaps he should take them down, but he never does. He likes going to sleep looking at them, remembering the day Achilles had showed up in his room with a bag full of them after Patroclus had told him that the dark scares him sometimes. He hadn’t expected it, but his nightmares did get better after that.

“Goodnight,” he whispers. Achilles says nothing, his back staring resolutely at him. 

Patroclus closes his eyes with a sigh. The single pillow they share is almost entirely covered by Achilles’ hair, but Patroclus doesn’t mind. He never does. He likes the sweet summer smell of it and how soft it feels. Sometimes, he wakes up with a faceful of it in the morning while Achilles snores quietly beside him, eyelids twitching as he dreams. In those moments, with the early morning light filtering through a curtain of gold, Patroclus thinks he wouldn't mind waking up like this every day of his life.

Achilles doesn’t know this, of course. Patroclus always makes sure to give a half-hearted protest about the unruliness of his friend’s bedhead, for good measure.

The weariness of the day tugs at him. Soon, Patroclus’s limbs grow heavier, his mind drifting slowly into sleep. His throat still feels raw from all the coughing and wheezing, but his breaths are mellow for once, not tearing at him from the inside. Having Achilles near helps; his even, rhythmic breathing always calms him down. 

He’s almost asleep, floating in a dream, when he feels the bed shake ever so slightly. Achilles’ shoulders tremble beneath the blanket, and the sniffling sound that comes muffled from the pillow is faint, yet clearly audible in the quiet.

“‘Chilles?” Patroclus mumbles sleepily, cracking open his eyes. “You okay?” 

Instead of an answer, Achilles just gives his head a jerky nod. 

Patroclus pushes himself on an elbow, rubbing at his gritty eye with his knuckle. “Are you cold?” he asks, though he knows that can't be the case. It’s a hot day’s night, and Achilles never sleeps with more than a thin blanket anyway, even in the heart of winter. 

“Just go back to—sleep,” Achilles says, hiccuping on the last word, voice thick and nasal. Patroclus’ stomach drops. 

“Are you crying?” he asks, half in alarm, half in dismay. He can’t think of what might have caused Achilles to cry in the moments since switching off the lights, but it can’t be good. 

“I’m fine,” Achilles insists, but the sob that catches in his throat as he says that is evidence enough that he isn’t.