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Patroclus gets the phone call half way through his “nap” - “Nap” because it’s 6 hours long and lasts from when he gets off shift at the hospital at 8am until 2pm when he has a lecture. So he’s up, and he stirs, but he’s groggy. When he sees Briseis’ name, he almost doesn’t pick up. She’s probably just calling to tell him gossip, or yell at him, or something. Nothing important. So he let’s it ring, and goes back to sleep. But then she calls again.
That’s suspicious.
He resigns himself to the fact that his nap is over, and answers the phone.
“Bri?” He asks, running a hand through his hair. He wonders if he sounds as groggy as he feels.
“Look, I know I woke you up,” That’s a yes, then. “But you need to get down here now; we’re just outside Troy Building. I’m trying to get Killie to sit still, because he might have a neck injury or be concussed-”
“I’m fine, Jesus, will you calm down-”
The second voice is muffled, far away, someone speaking to Briseis but not to the phone. And Patroclus would know that voice anywhere.
He’s up in ten seconds and pulling on a pair of jeans, almost falling over when trying to get both legs in and hold the phone at the same time.
“I’ll be there in five, okay?”
It was a ten minute walk, but he doubted he would be walking if Killie got hurt. Achilles never get hurts, he’s always fine. Suspiciously fine, actually. For a guy playing three separate sports and fencing whenever he gets the chance, he comes away remarkably unscathed. He’s told Pat that it’s just good luck; Pat doesn’t believe him.
He makes it in six minutes, and finds Briseis pinning Achilles to the wall with a death glare. Pat wonders just how longer she’s actually been stood like that; it’d be enough to keep him in place for an entire year.
“Ah, here he is, our resident doctor.” Briseis says.
“I can’t believe you called my boyfriend.” Killie mutters. “I’m not a child!”
“Funny, ‘cause you’re pouting like one.” Pat grins, trying to smooth things over. Killie gives him a glare that tells him things are not smoothed over at all. He looks away, petulant. He gets like this sometimes, Pat knows. He doesn’t understand it; Achilles is the sweetest, kindest, most loveable person you could ever meet. He’s gentle with everyone, he’s funny. He attracts people, draws them in, so likeable himself that it actually escapes him - he has no idea what he’s like. But he has a temper on him like Pat has never seen, can snap in a second and be on a rampage for hours. Patroclus has learned over the last few months, what sets him off, and what doesn’t. Achilles rarely, if ever, directs his temper at Patroclus, but either way, whether he’s angry at Pat or not, Patroclus has learned a very effective method for releasing his frustration - one that both of them enjoy.
“What was it this time?”
He shines a light at the back of Achilles’ eyes, and listens to him grunt. He checks the top of his head for any head wounds, trawling through blond curls with his fingertips, but he finds none. That’s good. He takes his face carefully between his hands, checking for anything wrong there (read: using it as an excuse to look at him).
“Agamemnon called me a whore,” Briseis explains from a few feet away.
Patroclus’ lips purse. Funny, how Briseis had actually been in his friend, originally. She’d liked Achilles, of course, and they’d gotten on like a house on fire, but then they became just as close as Patroclus was with her and that was that. He’s stupidly protective over her, now. Patroclus isn’t naive enough to think it’s because she’s a woman because Achilles is exactly the same with him. It’s just people he cares about. He’ll do anything for the people he loves, in whatever way he loves them.
“But he didn’t just call you a whore, did he?” Achilles says, his voice is malicious, dripping with anger. Patroclus knows this isn’t going to go anywhere good as he swipes an antiseptic wipe of Achilles’ broken knuckles. “He call you a filthy fuckin’ slut, and then he called you a whore, and like fuck was I gonna let him get away with-”
“It wasn’t your battle to fight, Killie!” Briseis all but yells. They get a few stares from people across campus. “Agamemnon’s a douche. A don’t give a shit what he says.”
“Well I do.” Killie snaps, vicious, and Briseis stares at him, her gaze hard.
There’s a beat, where Patroclus nearly snaps under the tension that buzzes between the two of them. And then it breaks, and Briseis is turning away, grabbing her bag. “I’m going to my lecture.”
She stalks away, and Patroclus sighs. “Let’s go home.” He says to Achilles, who looks away from him, down at the ground, even as he stands.
~*~
Achilles sits in the armchair, which is how Patroclus knows that something is really wrong. Ever since they moved into their apartment across town, close enough to campus to get there quickly but close enough to the city to be in the midst of things (funded by Killie’s father, but they never mention that) Killie has taken up a few favourite positions. He’ll sit on the sofa next to Pat, or on the arm of the sofa next to Pat, or on the floor in front of Pat where they other can easily reach down and tangle his fingers in blond curls.
But now he sits in the armchair, and he seethes.
Patroclus pretends to write up the notes he took from his last lecture and decidedly doesn’t look at him, until he keeps on looking at him, every other minute.
He can see how Achilles relaxes. He starts out tense, curled into a ball on the armchair, and then his legs slip, onto the floor. One part of him relaxed. Then his shoulders move back, relaxing against the couch. That’s good. Another part. And then his head lolls back against the chair too and Patroclus knows that he’s calmed down; he’s almost expecting it when Achilles moves to sit next to him on the sofa, hiding his face in his shoulder.
“I overreacted, huh?”
“Maybe,” Patroclus muses. “You were right to be mad, but Briseis just sent me a photo of Agamemnon’s face. You did a number on him.”
“I know.” Achilles murmurs. “I was there.”
Pat snorts. How much of Achilles is really there when he goes off into one of those horrible rages? “Briseis isn’t really mad.” He says.
“She seemed pretty mad.” Killie argues.
Pat shakes his head. “That’s just what she’s like when she’s worried. She was a little pissed, sure, ‘cause she doesn’t think she needs anyone to fight her battles, but she’s just worried. She’ll probably stop by after her lecture, it’ll be alright.”
Killie doesn’t say anything for a while. He props his chin on Patroclus’ shoulder, and looks at him. Patroclus discards the notes, because there’s no way they’re getting done now. He runs a hand over Achilles' face, and the younger man winces. Patroclus leans in to press a kiss to each bruise that has sprung up on his usually so perfect, so smooth, so golden skin, willing them away. It doesn't work, but it does bring a soft smile to his boyfriend's lips.
“I’m sorry.” He murmurs.
“Don’t apologise to me,” Pat says. He wants to add something, but he doesn’t.
“I woke you up.” Achilles prompts, but Patroclus just smiles.
“Bri woke me up.” He counters. “And I don’t mind. Not for you.”
Killie’s smile is soft, and sweet. This is what Patroclus lives for. He leans in to meet Achilles as he kisses him; it’s somewhat chaste, closed lip and soft, but it still sets Patroclus’ heart raising.
“Maybe no fighting for a while, okay?” He asks, and Killie gives a low chuckle.
“Okay.” He nods.
Patroclus knows it’s not a promise, but it soothes him enough for him to pull Killie towards him and kiss him again, and again, and again.