The Song Of Patroclus

Chapter Three

For days I study him through the windows of the palace, watch as he kicks rocks in the dust amongst the other boys who ignore him or trains with a spear during morning drills. Patroclus is quite clumsy, tending to sway from the weight of the weapon he holds. The boys laugh at this, I do not.

Meals are when I can see him properly and each time he keeps his distance, positioned at the farthest end of the table with his head down and back slightly hunched. I talk to the others, circulating the tables, hold chunks of bread to keep my hands busy, and skim my feet over the cold marble floors.

One of those days, I found some courage and sat a bit closer to him and the other boys crowded me like slobbering dogs. I gave them what they wanted, fed them their shares of laughter but all I really cared for was him.

I tried to act unfazed when Patroclus looked at me, though my pulse would beat thick in my veins and I felt a sweat skim the back of my neck. It took every will in me to not look back, clenching the bread in my hand until it crumbled and left wheat powder on my palms.

After a while it became unbearable, the urge ate me from the inside out, so I looked. My mother would be disappointed at my poor restraint. Patroclus was looking down at his plate but as soon as he felt the heat of my eyes, his head lifted.

Our gazes held and for a moment, time seemed to stop.

His eyes in the setting sun were like honey with a hue of amber. It was the color of logs being swallowed by fire, embers flickering the wood to a crisp. I could drown in them and not care if I died. That something, there it was.

I averted my eyes, knowing if I continued to look I wouldn't be able to stop. But those seconds, half-seconds, were the best of my life. Now, I had something. This.

From that day on I stayed close and whenever his honeyed eyes brushed against my skin, I'd catch him off guard and look back. The flush pigment of his cheeks and tense shoulders brought me joy. I was getting to him. If not by friendliness then by anger; I could see it in the way he clutched his cutlery, how his knuckles grew white from the tight grip he maintained.

He did not like me. I knew this and that was okay. One day I'd know him and he would know me and all would be right.

***

Patroclus has been here for four weeks, four excruciating weeks that we haven't so much as exchanged one word. Every night or early morning that I saw my mother, she sensed a change in me, a secret I did not disclose.

"You seem..." she struggled with the right word to describe my less lined forehead and the lighter steps I took. She did not finish her sentence and left it forgotten.

Good, I smile inside my head. Let her believe it is nothing. This was the one thing in my life she had not touched, had not decided for herself, or foretold.

But I am sick of our distance, how his stubbornness keeps him in a quiet corner. So that afternoon I arrive early enough that every seat is empty and tables aren't even set. I sit right next to where Patroclus does and even lift my leg to hold his place so another boy won't fill it.

By the time Patroclus arrives, I am crowded and the dining hall echos in chatter. He stands in the entryway, staring at me heavily with a clenched jaw. He probably contemplates whether or not to skip this meal but I know he will not let me win.

Patroclus might be quiet but he holds what he's able to have close to his heart. I admire this about him.

He juts his chin and comes over, uncomfortable with every step. I slide my leg discretely off the bench but he chooses to sit at the other empty space. This makes my mind stutter, I had not thought of this. A boy with raven-feathered hair has already taken the spot I'd saved before I can protest against it.