[exo] antares
antares
lay/chen ; pg-15 ; romance, drama ; character death ; 3k~
There’s no more vicious thrum of the blood in his veins, no glory in wars if he has already lost his fight to his heart and his most beloved comrade is no more, but the war goes on even though he does not. Ancient Greece AU
Just close your eyes, the sun is going down
You’ll be alright, no one can hurt you now
Come morning light
You and I’ll be safe and sound
antares.
Maybe it’s the ever present scowl on his face, or maybe it’s because the new slaveboy is small for his age, clumsy as well, that has the six year old prince Yixing curious. The boy might not know it, but Yixing’s been observing him for a while.
The boy came two days previously, donkey laden with bags of golden goblets and bowls, tunic rumpled and dirty. Two guards escort him, and upon making sure that he arrived at Yixing’s father’s palace steps safely, promptly rode away again as though eager to be rid of him.
He sits away from the other slaveboys during mealtimes, and he never eats much, always leaving the table long before the others are finished. He’s not very talented with weapons either, Yixing thinks and purses his lips as he watches the boys’ morning drills. Swords are too heavy for him and spears don’t fit well with his small-palmed hands. Yixing notes how his arms are too weak and skinny to pull taut the string of a bow, and the only thing he can properly wield is the dagger.
When he asks his father who the new slaveboy is, his father’s answer is vague.
“He’s the exiled son of a nobleman from Icatha,” is all he says before he waves Yixing away, but Yixing has always been a curious boy, and would not rest until he is sated with answers.
The longer he observes him, the more he realizes, the boy just looks lonely.
Yixing only properly talks to him a month later. He finds him sitting on the steps of the palace courtyard, thin knees pulled to his chest and drawing at the ground with a stick. His eyes are downcast and lower lip jutting out in a slight pout as he sketches stars on the dirt, bony fingers tapping against his leg. Yixing approaches him in silence.
“What are you doing?” he asks, and the boy jumps in surprise, turning to look at Yixing with wild eyes. Yixing thinks he looks like the deers his father shoots down when they go out hunting, body rigid and ready to flee at the first signs of danger.
“You are not supposed to be here,” the boy says, standing up and brushing the dirt off his tunic. His eyes are wary and guarded, but Yixing can see the small tremors in his hands, and how he clasps them behind his body when he realizes Yixing is staring.
“I can do whatever I like.”
“His highness the Prince of Phthia can do whatever he wishes,” the boy agrees. “But I am just a poor slaveboy for your father’s stables and kitchens. What does he want from me?”
“Your name,” Yixing answers, and the boy looks surprised.
“Jongdae,” he says, voice small and quiet like he’s afraid of Yixing’s reaction when he finds out. His head is bowed, eyelids lowered and lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks when he blinks, and Yixing smiles, endeared. He reaches behind Jongdae’s body and takes one of his wrists, pulling him along even as Jongdae shouts his protests.
It is the beginning of something beautiful,
(and tragic.)
Falling in love with Jongdae, Yixing thinks, is inevitable. He’s seen it coming, if he’s honest with himself. He doesn’t even notice when he started seeing Jongdae as someone he loves to someone he’s in love with. They have been inseparable ever since that first day, joined at the hip and Jongdae had quickly became his closest comrade, the one he confides his deepest secrets in, the brother he never had.
They are now fifteen, and maybe something else.
Jongdae’s mouth is sweet on his, hot and yielding, like warm honey on his tongue and his soft pants are music to his ears. Everything that tumbles out of Jongdae’s mouth sounds like music, even when he speaks, even when he comments on the most mundane things like the weather or the golden thread on Yixing’s tunic. They would often sit beside their bedroom window and Yixing would play his lyre, and Jongdae would hum to songs he writes himself.
It’s a warm night, the haze of summer clouding their minds. The sheets are damp with their sweat as Yixing props himself on his elbow and rolls on top of his friend, now leaving kisses along the column of his neck. It’s been many years since Yixing had pulled Jongdae from his sleeping pallet on the floor of Yixing’s room and into Yixing’s own bed, ever since he took Jongdae as his companion, a brother-in-arms sworn to a prince by blood oaths, and made him sleep in the same room.
All this time he had never seen Jongdae as someone he wants like this, although he has long fallen in love with him. But today Yixing had roused from sleep at the dead of the night for no reason, and seen Jongdae sleeping beside him, face peaceful, the planes of his naked chest alabaster in the moonlight. The prince couldn’t keep himself from leaning over and kissing his sleeping face, his temples, nose, and lips. Yixing had ran his hands down Jongdae’s skin and he shivered, woke, and kissed him back.
Present time Jongdae fights to muffle his moans as Yixing pleasures him, hand stroking the hard flesh between his legs. Yixing hardly knows what he’s doing, but Jongdae’s flushed face and his chest that heaves for breath looks beautiful, and the noises he makes are encouraging. Yixing thinks he couldn’t possibly want him more than he does now, but then Jongdae convulses and releases with a cry, back arching away from the bed lewdly, and the fire in his veins burns hotter than ever. He comes back up and kisses Jongdae sloppily, stroking himself desperately as he does so before Jongdae takes over with a shaky hand.
The tight coil in Yixing’s belly snaps and he lets out a loud shout that he muffles in Jongdae’s shoulder, his body wracked with almost sobs as Yixing releases into his hand.
“I think we need to wash,” Jongdae says when they’re lying side by side when it’s over, eyes closed, chest going up and down in even breaths. But he makes no move to get up, so Yixing doesn’t either. The moonlight is back illuminating his face, hitting one side and throwing shadows to the other, caresses his skin until they look so deathly pale. He looks like a god, like an immortal who rests on Mount Olympus with the way his dark hair falls to his eyes, contrasting with his fair skin and soft, kiss-swollen lips slightly open.
Yixing feels words travel from his lungs to his throat, up to his mouth, and he opens his mouth to say them. “I lo--”
But suddenly the words evaporate and die on his lips, his tongue suddenly heavy and useless and Yixing doesn’t have a clue of what is going on. Jongdae opens his eyes slowly, eyelashes fluttering. He smiles, so soft and tender it feels like a physical ache to Yixing’s very being.
“I love you,” Jongdae sighs and snakes his arms around Yixing’s waist, pulling him closer and placing his head underneath his chin. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Yixing swallows. It hurts, the pain feels good on his throat.
“Yes,” he says. “Yes.”
His mother despises Jongdae, she always has, ever since he first steps foot into the castle and Yixing lays eyes on him. Yixing is the chosen boy, the Aristos Achaion, The Best of the Greeks, son of the King of Phthia and a goddess of the sea. His future will be a glorious one, his coming and fate foreseen in prophecies from centuries ago, and his mother will make sure, after he receives his glory on earth, he will be lifted as a god. She will have him drink Ambrosia and nothing else until he is light enough to fly to Mount Olympus, where she will find him a goddess wife who will bear him sons and bring him honor.
But this mortal boy will ruin her plans. He is weak and unworthy, and she is persistent to remove him from her son’s presence. However Yixing is just as stubborn, holding on to Jongdae because he doesn’t think he’s ready for this, to be the Aristos Achaion or to have his name recorded down in history. They never let you be happy and famous at the same time, and Yixing’s happiness is Jongdae.
But even so Yixing couldn’t deny the thrum in his veins when he holds a spear or a sword in his hands, the rush of blood in his ears when they hit their target dead in the middle. He is born for this, for war and glory and spilling the blood of enemies.
He knows Jongdae is scared of him when he has a weapon in his hand. He knows he becomes a totally different person, a killer, with feet as agile as a deer and hands as quick as lightning, his spear points and sword blades deadly. There are sparks in his eyes that screams bloodlust, a thirst in his body to see death in his hands.
When he finishes and turns his head to see Jongdae watching him train, his chest aches with a dull throb at the look in his eyes.
Jongdae is terrified, it’s clearly written in his face and his faintly trembling fists. It makes Yixing sad but there is nothing he can do but smile, and will the sparks in his eyes to melt to a soft glow for Jongdae. It’s only then that Jongdae’s fear fades, laughing shakily as he stumbles forward into Yixing’s arms.
Yixing did say he wasn’t ready for his fate, but when the call for war on Troy reaches Phthia one summer when they are seventeen, he becomes restless; it simmers under his skin and rouses him from sleep almost every night. Jongdae begs him not to go, eyes pleading as he attempts to put Yixing back to sleep.
“I must not lose you,” Jongdae whispers, hands fisting on the front of Yixing’s tunic. “I can’t lose you.”
“I am the Aristos Achaion,” Yixing answers, but the answer does not appease Jongdae.
His mother is also against his decision, her eyes sad on her unearthly-beautiful face. Her dress the color of sea foam flows behind her, and she bunches up the flowy fabric in her hands as she weeps into her knees, nails scratching the rocks she sits upon. Yixing is frustrated, does nobody understand?
“My son, the war of Troy will bring you glory that will last generations, that will ensure your name in history,” she wails as the sea moans along with her.
“Is it not what you want, mother? My eternal glory?” Yixing shouts, angry.
Her wails become louder. “But it has been foreseen that you will meet your end in Troy, that the war will bring you glory and gold but you will never return to Phthia.”
Yixing is persistent. He gives her the same answer he gives Jongdae. “I am the Aristos Achaion. I will return.”
With that promise Yixing turns away from the sea and from her, beginning his trek back to the castle. He will go, first and foremost for the call in his blood and then for the promised glory, no matter what anyone says. His mother leaves him with one last sentence before she dives back to the sea.
“Do not kill the Prince of Troy, and do not let anyone kill him, for your death comes after his.”
The war of Troy rages on for ten long years, and many lives are lost, many women now widows, and many children now fatherless. Yixing fights everyday, and his troops and the rest of Greeks have gone through plagues, the wrath of Apollo, and a near internal betrayal. But still the walls of Troy are as strong and erect as ever, unyielding.
He has come across Kai the Prince of Troy many times these ten years but always refrains from wounding him severely enough to kill. He can perfectly do it, but Yixing is content with this game of cat-and-mouse, they can win the war without killing Kai.
Jongdae comes with him, of course. Yixing will not let him fight, keeps him safe inside their tent so Jongdae only helps by tending the wounded. It feels nice, to have someone to come back to every night after he is tired fighting, to fall into Jongdae’s embrace and rest his weary limbs for tomorrow.
“If you go to the war, I will go with you,” Jongdae had said to him before they departed for Troy all those years ago. The words still ring in his ears. “And if you die, I will follow you into the dark.”
The day Jongdae comes back to him dead, face pale but peaceful, limbs folded neatly on the stretcher and body covered with blood and cuts and gashes, is the day Yixing realizes he’s made the worst decision of his life. That day the Trojans had broken into their camp, wreaked havoc led by Kai, and Jongdae had begged to be allowed outside to tend to their wounded companions. Yixing said no, absolutely not, it’s too dangerous, but Jongdae is stubborn.
Jongdae, albeit reluctantly, would have stayed in the tent had Yixing not given in under his pleading eyes.
Yixing’s pained wails pierce the night as he mourns for his fallen lover, friend, comrade. The tears wouldn’t stop falling, falling, drop by drop into Jongdae’s quickly paling and stiffening body while the others watch in a circle, heads bowed. The agony is too much, the throbbing ache in his chest leaving him gasping for breath as he refuses to let go of Jongdae’s corpse even after two days, five days, a week, three. He mourns with his whole body as the war continues on without him outside, refusing to eat or sleep.
The glory that the battle promises is nothing without Jongdae to share them with. There is nothing left in the war for him except revenge. He cannot be famous and happy after all.
On the twenty-second day Yixing steels his resolve, and with the help of a servant, carries Jongdae’s corpse outside to cremate by the sea. His heart burns as he feeds the body to the licking flames, his very soul turning black and dead and then crumbling to ash along with Jongdae.
“When I die, it won’t be long now,” Yixing says to the servant, eyes never once leaving Jongdae’s body burning in the embers. “Mingle my ash with his. That is my final wish.”
Jongdae’s killer is Kai, Prince of Troy.
Yixing receives no pleasure from killing Kai, even though his men cheer wildly as his spear goes straight through Kai’s chest and out his back. He stares at the dead body of Jongdae’s killer with blank eyes, wordlessly tying Kai’s feet to the back of his chariot. The Greeks cheer louder as Yixing rides around the walls of Troy with their dead prince dragged behind him, the Trojans’ cries and tears loud and adding to the din for the fall of their greatest warrior.
Yixing feels the arrow before he sees it. He does not move away, there is no need to.
The arrow is shot by Kai’s brother, Prince Sehun, from a tower in the castle of Troy with eyes that brim with grief and anger, and it goes straight through Yixing’s chest, cleanly cuts through his heart and crimson spills onto the front of his armour. The war is not yet truly over, but his world comes to a standstill, before it slowly tilts on its axis.
They say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. But to Yixing all his memories consists of Jongdae and his smile and his stubbornness, the wicked glint in his eyes when he’s up to no good and the taste of his skin on Yixing’s tongue, his laughter that brings sun into his cloudy days. Yixing might be the best of the Greeks, but before Jongdae he is but a man, blinded with desire and love and all his skills in the battlefield means nothing and has no power when Jongdae speaks, when he sings, when he says Yixing’s name with that way only he can do it.
Yixing sees Jongdae behind the veil, a shadow he will know wherever and whenever, and even in death.
- end
a/n: early christmas present for my hanna daexings who wanted a chenlay achilles/patroclus fic! welcome to the ancient gay fandom ohohohoho \o/ i hope you like this hanna bb and you deserve more but this is all i can give you ♥ also based on the book the song of achilles by madeline miller. but! those of you who have read it might realize that i’ve simplified the plot, because i don’t want another monster fic i have enough in my plate for the moment. this was written in one day omg i guess i’m on a roll hahah!
♥
lay/chen ; pg-15 ; romance, drama ; character death ; 3k~
There’s no more vicious thrum of the blood in his veins, no glory in wars if he has already lost his fight to his heart and his most beloved comrade is no more, but the war goes on even though he does not. Ancient Greece AU
Just close your eyes, the sun is going down
You’ll be alright, no one can hurt you now
Come morning light
You and I’ll be safe and sound
antares.
Maybe it’s the ever present scowl on his face, or maybe it’s because the new slaveboy is small for his age, clumsy as well, that has the six year old prince Yixing curious. The boy might not know it, but Yixing’s been observing him for a while.
The boy came two days previously, donkey laden with bags of golden goblets and bowls, tunic rumpled and dirty. Two guards escort him, and upon making sure that he arrived at Yixing’s father’s palace steps safely, promptly rode away again as though eager to be rid of him.
He sits away from the other slaveboys during mealtimes, and he never eats much, always leaving the table long before the others are finished. He’s not very talented with weapons either, Yixing thinks and purses his lips as he watches the boys’ morning drills. Swords are too heavy for him and spears don’t fit well with his small-palmed hands. Yixing notes how his arms are too weak and skinny to pull taut the string of a bow, and the only thing he can properly wield is the dagger.
When he asks his father who the new slaveboy is, his father’s answer is vague.
“He’s the exiled son of a nobleman from Icatha,” is all he says before he waves Yixing away, but Yixing has always been a curious boy, and would not rest until he is sated with answers.
The longer he observes him, the more he realizes, the boy just looks lonely.
Yixing only properly talks to him a month later. He finds him sitting on the steps of the palace courtyard, thin knees pulled to his chest and drawing at the ground with a stick. His eyes are downcast and lower lip jutting out in a slight pout as he sketches stars on the dirt, bony fingers tapping against his leg. Yixing approaches him in silence.
“What are you doing?” he asks, and the boy jumps in surprise, turning to look at Yixing with wild eyes. Yixing thinks he looks like the deers his father shoots down when they go out hunting, body rigid and ready to flee at the first signs of danger.
“You are not supposed to be here,” the boy says, standing up and brushing the dirt off his tunic. His eyes are wary and guarded, but Yixing can see the small tremors in his hands, and how he clasps them behind his body when he realizes Yixing is staring.
“I can do whatever I like.”
“His highness the Prince of Phthia can do whatever he wishes,” the boy agrees. “But I am just a poor slaveboy for your father’s stables and kitchens. What does he want from me?”
“Your name,” Yixing answers, and the boy looks surprised.
“Jongdae,” he says, voice small and quiet like he’s afraid of Yixing’s reaction when he finds out. His head is bowed, eyelids lowered and lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks when he blinks, and Yixing smiles, endeared. He reaches behind Jongdae’s body and takes one of his wrists, pulling him along even as Jongdae shouts his protests.
It is the beginning of something beautiful,
(and tragic.)
Falling in love with Jongdae, Yixing thinks, is inevitable. He’s seen it coming, if he’s honest with himself. He doesn’t even notice when he started seeing Jongdae as someone he loves to someone he’s in love with. They have been inseparable ever since that first day, joined at the hip and Jongdae had quickly became his closest comrade, the one he confides his deepest secrets in, the brother he never had.
They are now fifteen, and maybe something else.
Jongdae’s mouth is sweet on his, hot and yielding, like warm honey on his tongue and his soft pants are music to his ears. Everything that tumbles out of Jongdae’s mouth sounds like music, even when he speaks, even when he comments on the most mundane things like the weather or the golden thread on Yixing’s tunic. They would often sit beside their bedroom window and Yixing would play his lyre, and Jongdae would hum to songs he writes himself.
It’s a warm night, the haze of summer clouding their minds. The sheets are damp with their sweat as Yixing props himself on his elbow and rolls on top of his friend, now leaving kisses along the column of his neck. It’s been many years since Yixing had pulled Jongdae from his sleeping pallet on the floor of Yixing’s room and into Yixing’s own bed, ever since he took Jongdae as his companion, a brother-in-arms sworn to a prince by blood oaths, and made him sleep in the same room.
All this time he had never seen Jongdae as someone he wants like this, although he has long fallen in love with him. But today Yixing had roused from sleep at the dead of the night for no reason, and seen Jongdae sleeping beside him, face peaceful, the planes of his naked chest alabaster in the moonlight. The prince couldn’t keep himself from leaning over and kissing his sleeping face, his temples, nose, and lips. Yixing had ran his hands down Jongdae’s skin and he shivered, woke, and kissed him back.
Present time Jongdae fights to muffle his moans as Yixing pleasures him, hand stroking the hard flesh between his legs. Yixing hardly knows what he’s doing, but Jongdae’s flushed face and his chest that heaves for breath looks beautiful, and the noises he makes are encouraging. Yixing thinks he couldn’t possibly want him more than he does now, but then Jongdae convulses and releases with a cry, back arching away from the bed lewdly, and the fire in his veins burns hotter than ever. He comes back up and kisses Jongdae sloppily, stroking himself desperately as he does so before Jongdae takes over with a shaky hand.
The tight coil in Yixing’s belly snaps and he lets out a loud shout that he muffles in Jongdae’s shoulder, his body wracked with almost sobs as Yixing releases into his hand.
“I think we need to wash,” Jongdae says when they’re lying side by side when it’s over, eyes closed, chest going up and down in even breaths. But he makes no move to get up, so Yixing doesn’t either. The moonlight is back illuminating his face, hitting one side and throwing shadows to the other, caresses his skin until they look so deathly pale. He looks like a god, like an immortal who rests on Mount Olympus with the way his dark hair falls to his eyes, contrasting with his fair skin and soft, kiss-swollen lips slightly open.
Yixing feels words travel from his lungs to his throat, up to his mouth, and he opens his mouth to say them. “I lo--”
But suddenly the words evaporate and die on his lips, his tongue suddenly heavy and useless and Yixing doesn’t have a clue of what is going on. Jongdae opens his eyes slowly, eyelashes fluttering. He smiles, so soft and tender it feels like a physical ache to Yixing’s very being.
“I love you,” Jongdae sighs and snakes his arms around Yixing’s waist, pulling him closer and placing his head underneath his chin. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Yixing swallows. It hurts, the pain feels good on his throat.
“Yes,” he says. “Yes.”
His mother despises Jongdae, she always has, ever since he first steps foot into the castle and Yixing lays eyes on him. Yixing is the chosen boy, the Aristos Achaion, The Best of the Greeks, son of the King of Phthia and a goddess of the sea. His future will be a glorious one, his coming and fate foreseen in prophecies from centuries ago, and his mother will make sure, after he receives his glory on earth, he will be lifted as a god. She will have him drink Ambrosia and nothing else until he is light enough to fly to Mount Olympus, where she will find him a goddess wife who will bear him sons and bring him honor.
But this mortal boy will ruin her plans. He is weak and unworthy, and she is persistent to remove him from her son’s presence. However Yixing is just as stubborn, holding on to Jongdae because he doesn’t think he’s ready for this, to be the Aristos Achaion or to have his name recorded down in history. They never let you be happy and famous at the same time, and Yixing’s happiness is Jongdae.
But even so Yixing couldn’t deny the thrum in his veins when he holds a spear or a sword in his hands, the rush of blood in his ears when they hit their target dead in the middle. He is born for this, for war and glory and spilling the blood of enemies.
He knows Jongdae is scared of him when he has a weapon in his hand. He knows he becomes a totally different person, a killer, with feet as agile as a deer and hands as quick as lightning, his spear points and sword blades deadly. There are sparks in his eyes that screams bloodlust, a thirst in his body to see death in his hands.
When he finishes and turns his head to see Jongdae watching him train, his chest aches with a dull throb at the look in his eyes.
Jongdae is terrified, it’s clearly written in his face and his faintly trembling fists. It makes Yixing sad but there is nothing he can do but smile, and will the sparks in his eyes to melt to a soft glow for Jongdae. It’s only then that Jongdae’s fear fades, laughing shakily as he stumbles forward into Yixing’s arms.
Yixing did say he wasn’t ready for his fate, but when the call for war on Troy reaches Phthia one summer when they are seventeen, he becomes restless; it simmers under his skin and rouses him from sleep almost every night. Jongdae begs him not to go, eyes pleading as he attempts to put Yixing back to sleep.
“I must not lose you,” Jongdae whispers, hands fisting on the front of Yixing’s tunic. “I can’t lose you.”
“I am the Aristos Achaion,” Yixing answers, but the answer does not appease Jongdae.
His mother is also against his decision, her eyes sad on her unearthly-beautiful face. Her dress the color of sea foam flows behind her, and she bunches up the flowy fabric in her hands as she weeps into her knees, nails scratching the rocks she sits upon. Yixing is frustrated, does nobody understand?
“My son, the war of Troy will bring you glory that will last generations, that will ensure your name in history,” she wails as the sea moans along with her.
“Is it not what you want, mother? My eternal glory?” Yixing shouts, angry.
Her wails become louder. “But it has been foreseen that you will meet your end in Troy, that the war will bring you glory and gold but you will never return to Phthia.”
Yixing is persistent. He gives her the same answer he gives Jongdae. “I am the Aristos Achaion. I will return.”
With that promise Yixing turns away from the sea and from her, beginning his trek back to the castle. He will go, first and foremost for the call in his blood and then for the promised glory, no matter what anyone says. His mother leaves him with one last sentence before she dives back to the sea.
“Do not kill the Prince of Troy, and do not let anyone kill him, for your death comes after his.”
The war of Troy rages on for ten long years, and many lives are lost, many women now widows, and many children now fatherless. Yixing fights everyday, and his troops and the rest of Greeks have gone through plagues, the wrath of Apollo, and a near internal betrayal. But still the walls of Troy are as strong and erect as ever, unyielding.
He has come across Kai the Prince of Troy many times these ten years but always refrains from wounding him severely enough to kill. He can perfectly do it, but Yixing is content with this game of cat-and-mouse, they can win the war without killing Kai.
Jongdae comes with him, of course. Yixing will not let him fight, keeps him safe inside their tent so Jongdae only helps by tending the wounded. It feels nice, to have someone to come back to every night after he is tired fighting, to fall into Jongdae’s embrace and rest his weary limbs for tomorrow.
“If you go to the war, I will go with you,” Jongdae had said to him before they departed for Troy all those years ago. The words still ring in his ears. “And if you die, I will follow you into the dark.”
The day Jongdae comes back to him dead, face pale but peaceful, limbs folded neatly on the stretcher and body covered with blood and cuts and gashes, is the day Yixing realizes he’s made the worst decision of his life. That day the Trojans had broken into their camp, wreaked havoc led by Kai, and Jongdae had begged to be allowed outside to tend to their wounded companions. Yixing said no, absolutely not, it’s too dangerous, but Jongdae is stubborn.
Jongdae, albeit reluctantly, would have stayed in the tent had Yixing not given in under his pleading eyes.
Yixing’s pained wails pierce the night as he mourns for his fallen lover, friend, comrade. The tears wouldn’t stop falling, falling, drop by drop into Jongdae’s quickly paling and stiffening body while the others watch in a circle, heads bowed. The agony is too much, the throbbing ache in his chest leaving him gasping for breath as he refuses to let go of Jongdae’s corpse even after two days, five days, a week, three. He mourns with his whole body as the war continues on without him outside, refusing to eat or sleep.
The glory that the battle promises is nothing without Jongdae to share them with. There is nothing left in the war for him except revenge. He cannot be famous and happy after all.
On the twenty-second day Yixing steels his resolve, and with the help of a servant, carries Jongdae’s corpse outside to cremate by the sea. His heart burns as he feeds the body to the licking flames, his very soul turning black and dead and then crumbling to ash along with Jongdae.
“When I die, it won’t be long now,” Yixing says to the servant, eyes never once leaving Jongdae’s body burning in the embers. “Mingle my ash with his. That is my final wish.”
Jongdae’s killer is Kai, Prince of Troy.
Yixing receives no pleasure from killing Kai, even though his men cheer wildly as his spear goes straight through Kai’s chest and out his back. He stares at the dead body of Jongdae’s killer with blank eyes, wordlessly tying Kai’s feet to the back of his chariot. The Greeks cheer louder as Yixing rides around the walls of Troy with their dead prince dragged behind him, the Trojans’ cries and tears loud and adding to the din for the fall of their greatest warrior.
Yixing feels the arrow before he sees it. He does not move away, there is no need to.
The arrow is shot by Kai’s brother, Prince Sehun, from a tower in the castle of Troy with eyes that brim with grief and anger, and it goes straight through Yixing’s chest, cleanly cuts through his heart and crimson spills onto the front of his armour. The war is not yet truly over, but his world comes to a standstill, before it slowly tilts on its axis.
They say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. But to Yixing all his memories consists of Jongdae and his smile and his stubbornness, the wicked glint in his eyes when he’s up to no good and the taste of his skin on Yixing’s tongue, his laughter that brings sun into his cloudy days. Yixing might be the best of the Greeks, but before Jongdae he is but a man, blinded with desire and love and all his skills in the battlefield means nothing and has no power when Jongdae speaks, when he sings, when he says Yixing’s name with that way only he can do it.
Yixing sees Jongdae behind the veil, a shadow he will know wherever and whenever, and even in death.
- end
a/n: early christmas present for my hanna daexings who wanted a chenlay achilles/patroclus fic! welcome to the ancient gay fandom ohohohoho \o/ i hope you like this hanna bb and you deserve more but this is all i can give you ♥ also based on the book the song of achilles by madeline miller. but! those of you who have read it might realize that i’ve simplified the plot, because i don’t want another monster fic i have enough in my plate for the moment. this was written in one day omg i guess i’m on a roll hahah!
♥