Perspective Swap

Achilles (2)

During meals, Patroclus retreated to a shadowed corner at the far end of the hall, a solitary figure amidst the boisterous throng. No one dared bother him, afraid the rumors of his temper might be true.

I, of course, observed him with a detached curiosity, a pretense that even I found tiresome. Each day, a silent battle raged within me. Every fiber of my being yearned to approach him, to test this strange fire that burned in his eyes. But pride, that ever-present serpent coiled around my heart, held me back.

One particularly stifling midday, I decided to act. The midday sun beat down, turning the polished marble floor into a shimmering furnace. The usual cacophony of the hall was subdued, everyone seeking a sliver of shade. As I strode in, a gaggle of boys, eager for my approval, followed at my heels. My gaze swept the room, landing on Patroclus, hunched over his meal in his usual corner.

A sudden impulse, a rebellion against the monotony of expectation, seized me. Ignoring the surprised murmurs from my entourage, I veered off course, heading straight for his corner.

The closer I got, the more the shadows seemed to cling to him. His dark hair fell over his face, obscuring his expression. With a flourish, I planted myself at the table besides his own, the clatter echoing in the sudden silence. The other boys, sensing a shift, followed suit, crowding around the table.

Nearly nothing happened. He spared me just one glance the whole meal.

A wave of heat, a mixture of anger and something far more unsettling, flooded my chest. My carefully constructed facade, the mask of indifference I wore, threatened to crumble. Here was a challenge I hadn't anticipated, a rejection that stung more than any envious glare. The corner, once ignored, now felt like a territory claimed, a line drawn in the sand.

The sting of rejection lingered overnight, a burning ember in my gut. The next day, I marched into the hall, my usual entourage trailing behind me. My gaze landed on Patroclus, already ensconced in his claimed corner. A silent battle raged within me. Pride, once again, threatened to hold me back. This time, however, I wouldn't be swayed.

With a deliberate swagger, I strode straight for his table. The other boys, sensing the impending confrontation, followed close behind. Patroclus, as predicted, didn't rise. But a flicker of anger, a sharpening of his jawline, betrayed his indifference. He remained seated, his back rigid, shoulders tensed like a coiled viper ready to strike.

The air crackled with a strange energy as I settled myself at the table. My entourage, usually eager to fill the silence, seemed cowed by the unspoken tension. The usual chatter dwindled, replaced by an awkward silence punctuated only by forced laughter and nervous coughs.

Across from me, the other boys, desperate to break the ice, launched into a flurry of inane chatter. A spear and a bird, a race planned for the spring – topics utterly devoid of interest. My gaze, however, remained fixed on Patroclus.

A harvest moon, a fiery orb of orange, hung heavy in the twilight sky beyond the dining hall windows. The air grew thick with the unspoken challenge that hung between us. Restlessly, I brushed a strand of hair from my eyes, a hair that had grown longer in the weeks since Patroclus' arrival.

My hand reached for a bowl filled with plump figs, their delicate skins promising sweetness. An idea, reckless and impulsive, sparked in my mind. With a flick of my wrist, I launched the first fig into the air, then another, and another. They danced in an intricate pattern, their skins barely brushed by my nimble fingers. Each catch, each toss, a silent plea for acknowledgement.

The boys gawked, their initial awkwardness forgotten. They whooped and clapped, their admiration as hollow as empty armor rattling in the wind. But it wasn't their approval I craved. My focus remained solely on Patroclus.

The figs flew in a mesmerizing blur, defying gravity and logic. Even Patroclus, despite his best efforts to appear indifferent, couldn't entirely block them out. His gaze, initially distant, snagged on the swirling fruit, betraying his growing curiosity.

Seizing the opportunity, I launched a single fig towards him. It arced through the air, a silent offering. He couldn't evade it, not without drawing further attention. A flicker of annoyance crossed his features, but before he could protest, the fig landed softly in his cupped palms.

The moment hung heavy in the air. His dark eyes met mine, a silent question hanging between us. A mischievous grin, wide and suggestive, stretched across my face. My voice, a low rumble, dipped to a level only he could hear. "Careful, Patroclus," I murmured, my eyes lingering on the way the fig seemed to bulge slightly in his palm. "You might get a taste for something a little sweeter."