They do call him swift-footed

[gwenchan]

 

Fandom: The song of Achilles

Characters: Achilles, Patroclus

Prompt: Antica Grecia

Tag: missing moment

A light breeze is coming from the sea, creating ripples over the water surface. It’s a blessing from the sultry hotness of summer. 
Grabbing another seashell, Patroclus lazily tosses it among the waves, watching it draw a small arch before plummeting into the water.
Sitting at his side, Achilles draws lines in the wet sand with his toes.
“I'm bored,” he announces, pouting, flopping down with one big huff.
“We should go back to the palace then.”
Phoenix will send someone to retrieve them soon anyway. Technically they aren’t even supposed to be here, sneaking away from their tutors when they weren’t looking, speed and stealth hand in hand.
Patroclus has long stopped pretending he only followed Achilles in his shenanigans to be sure he didn’t hurt himself, out of duty as his squire. There was something in him he couldn’t resist.
“Bah,” Achilles sticks out his tongue. “You’re not helping. Seriously, what can we do?”
Patoclus grabs another seashell. “Must we do something?”
They’ve already bathed in the sea, having fun trying to drag the other under the water;  watched stones bounce on the surface and wrestled in the sand.
Any normal kid would be exhausted by now. But Achilles seems to have an unlimited reserve of energy.
“I know!”
Like  he just touched fire Achilles springs to his feet. “Let’s race,” he cries, jumping in place. “"C'mon, Pat!”
Refusing to move, Patroclus pouts. "And for what? You always win."
Nobody among the foster kids at Peleus’ palace can hope to match with him in a race. Patroclus has seen him lose just once and because he had tripped over a rock. Even then, the other kid had won by a hair and many had debated the victory.
“I’m giving you a headstart,” Achilles insists, grabbing his hands to make him stand. “Race with me.”
He looks at Patroclus with those eyes that he can’t resist and has gotten him in trouble countless times already.
“To where?”
“That rock,” Achilles points his arm straight before his nose.
Patroclus squints his eyes in the sun. “What rock?”

“Over there. Behind that cove.” He wiggles his index finger for emphasis.
“That… you’re crazy.”
It must be twelve stadia, thirteen even, to the farthest point of the beach. Patroclus feels tired already just by looking at it.
“How much of a head start,” he asks instead. Achilles taps on the sand, “I’ll count to one hundred.”
“Two hundred. Slowly. One way? Or round-trip?”
Bending his back forward into a stretch to loosen and warm his muscles, Achilles hums. “One way. So I have less of a chance to catch on you.”
He smirks at him, as if Patroclus hasn’t seen him closing wider gaps already. The cove, yet, is far and it takes time to count to two hundred.
He swings his arms above his head.
“Don’t cheat,” he warns, with all the seriousness he can manage with his eleven years, shifting one foot into a starting position. But he knows it’s useless clarification, as if Achille needed to cheat to win. Indeed, he makes an indignant face at the implication.

"O-one, two, three," he starts to count, making a great show to stretch each number.

Pursing his lips, eyes on the goal, Patroclus runs. The sand cede> under his naked feet. He glances over his shoulders, sure to see Achilles incoming, but Achilles is where Patroclus left him and dutifully counting.

He even flops back down onto the sand.

So Patroclus runs, heart beating fast in his chest, moving his legs as fast as he can. Achilles is still on the beach, growing smaller and smaller, and the cave is getting nearer. 

A first twinge of pain cuts through Patroclus’ side and he is feeling the nausea building up, but he doesn’t slow down. He might even win this time. 

Though, thinking about it, it’s not really winning if he is basically racing alone. Maybe, he oughts to stop and wait till he sees Achilles approaching. Until he’s half-way, at least.

He has barely elaborated the thought and begun to slow down when a cloud of dust raises. Seconds later, something flashes in the corner of his eyes. The next moment, Achilles is before him, racing to the final line. 

Patroclus chases him, uselessly.

“How?” he pants, throwing himself to the ground when he finally manages to catch up. “How? You cheated.”

Achilles makes an indignant sound.

“I did not!”
“Yes, you did. You did.” 

Patroclus launches to pin Achilles down. They wrestle till, as usual, Achilles has the upper hand, knees pressed to Patroclus’ chest. 

“Say I didn’t cheat.”

“You …”

“Say it!” The order is accompanied by him charging more weight on Patroclus’ ribcage. 

“You … didn’t cheat. You don’t need to.”

The pressure eases. "Exactly,” Achilles says proudly, offering him a hand. Patroclus sweeps sand from his legs and tunic.

“Next time I’ll make you count to three hundred.”

“Deal.”