They were flame and shadow. Light and gravity.

Achilles with his restless blaze—always moving, always burning—skin kissed by sun and war and glory. And Patroclus, the quieter pull, stillness personified, a breath drawn in before a storm, the tether that held the tide back. Together, they were more than a pairing. They were a rhythm. A myth made flesh. You had watched them from the periphery, first with admiration, then with something warmer. Heavier.

And then, without warning—without permission—your heart had made a place for both of them. Like a worm or parasite.

You did not speak of it. How could you? To love Achilles was to reach for the sun with bare hands. To love Patroclus was to long for the hush of dusk, knowing full well it would never ask anything of you it did not first give. They were already each other’s. The gods themselves had written it in the stars, hadn’t they?

You had been content to orbit. To listen to Achilles’ laughter across the tent at dusk, all teeth and golden hair tangled in the dying light. To feel the brush of Patroclus’ shoulder against yours as you passed him in the field, and pretend the shiver it sent down your spine was just the cold. Most night you just sat in your tent, holding your feelings and wants to your chest.

But it changed. Slowly. Imperceptibly.

Achilles began to linger...when you spoke. His eyes would hold to yours too long, his lips parted just slightly, as if every word you said left something unfinished on his tongue.

Patroclus noticed things. He always had. The way your gaze dropped when either of them looked at you too softly. The way your fingers curled inward when they sat too close, like you didn’t know where to place your hands. The way your breath caught when Achilles touched your wrist too casually in passing.

He said your name once—just your name. No question, no command. And you looked up, and there it was. The knowing.

Not pity. Not confusion.

Invitation.

You had sat in silence that night, all three of you. Achilles’ legs stretched across Patroclus’ lap, his golden head pillowed in your thigh, his fingers idly tracing the seam of your tunic. Patroclus had not looked away. Neither had you.

The fire cracked between you, and you realized, with a kind of soft horror, that your heart had not been split between them.

It had been doubled...

They did not ask anything of you. They never would. And that, more than anything, was what undid you.

Instead—Achilles reached up.

His hand curled around your wrist with a gentleness that startled you, and he said, with that grin that made your ribs ache,

"If you keep looking at us like that, we’ll have no choice but to keep you."