Perspective Swap

Achilles (7)

The weight of the juggling balls felt strangely comforting in my hands. "When I say, throw one to me," I instructed, my voice adopting a tone more accustomed to issuing commands on the battlefield than teaching a simple parlor trick. But somehow, the words seemed to soften on my tongue, morphing into something gentler.

He wound up, a slight frown creasing his brow in concentration, before launching the ball towards me. I snatched it effortlessly, integrating it into the already swirling dance of leather spheres. A satisfied smirk played on my lips. This, at least, was familiar territory.

"Now," I barked, the single word an invitation rather than an order.

He mimicked my throw, and the second ball joined the mesmerizing pattern. His aim was surprisingly good, considering his inexperience. A flicker of something that might have been... respect? flickered in his eyes.

"You do that well," I admitted, surprised by the words leaving my mouth. Was I complimenting him? The very notion sent a strange warmth blossoming in my chest.

He looked up, startled, as if unsure how to react to the unexpected praise. But there was a hint of curiosity, not disdain, in his gaze.

"Catch," I announced, launching one of the balls back towards him. It arced through the air, a perfect replica of the fig I had offered him at dinner.He reached out, his fingers closing instinctively around the falling projectile. A genuine smile bloomed on his face as he completed the unexpected catch.

The rhythmic back and forth continued, a silent conversation punctuated by the satisfying thwap of leather against leather and the occasional surprised laugh when one of us fumbled a catch.

Time seemed to melt away, the awkward silence replaced by a comfortable camaraderie. But fatigue, physical and emotional, finally began to set in.

"It's late," I mumbled, glancing towards the window where the moon now hung high in the sky. Hours had flown by, the time lost in the simple act of juggling and the comfortable silence that had descended upon us.

Patroclus rose from his pallet and crossed the room, his movements quiet and hesitant. He settled himself onto the rough bedding, his back facing me. The silence returned, but this time it felt different, less oppressive, charged with something unspoken.

I busied myself with the mundane tasks of preparing for sleep. The clink of metal as I removed my armor, the splash of water as I washed the sweat and grime of the day from my face, each sound echoing in the stillness of the room.

Despite the activity, my eyes kept straying towards his still form. He hadn't spoken, but I could sense the tension emanating from him. Should I try to break the silence again? Offer some empty platitude about the night's events?

But the words died in my throat. This wasn't about idle chatter. It was about something deeper, something I couldn't quite articulate.

Finally, with a sigh, I snuffed out the torch, plunging the room into darkness. "Good night," I murmured, the words rough against the quiet.

"Good night," he echoed, the sound barely a whisper.

Time seemed to stretch, the only sound the steady rasp of our breaths. In the faint moonlight filtering through the window, I could just make out the outline of his face, the strong jawline softened in sleep. He looked peaceful, yet even in slumber, a certain aloofness clung to him, like the cold touch of moonlight upon bare skin.

But despite the distance, a warmth bloomed in my chest. An unfamiliar flutter that sent a jolt through me. Tonight, for the first time, sleep would be filled not with visions of battle and glory, but with the unexpected image of Patroclus, a presence that lingered in my thoughts even as slumber claimed me.