run apollo run

aj anthology “no use worrying”

translation: @gyakutensaibanvsaceattorney
raws/cleaning/typesetting: @officialbarokvanzieks

please do not remove caption, edit or repost ty

We were Gods - Chapter 2

Golden; the lament of Patroclus

There’s a light in him. A molten skyline with soft edges and lazy thrown half-shades, that reflects like the blaze of fire on water. Pure, unbridled gasoline that pumps through his veins and pushes him - pushes pushes pushes - towards a larger goal, to something glorious, magnificent, real.

Sometimes he wakes in darkness that threatens to swallow him whole.

Sometimes he wakes in golden sunlight that catches in the little droplets of sweat on his front.

He’s not entirely sure which one is better.


He sorts his life in cycles and ages, and not in days or years like all the other do.

Patroclus is ten when Hector teases him about his olive skin and throws his gym clothes in a puddle of mud and rainwater.

Patroclus is thirteen when Apollo thinks he can beat the crap out of him.

(But Patroclus is fast, you see, and he runs and runs and runs until Apollo bends over and gasps for air like a fish on land.)

Patroclus is fourteen when he realizes he’s not like the other boys, because girls with bare legs and creamy skin or full, luscious lips do nothing for him.

Patroclus is seventeen when the sun blinds him and golden rays catch in the thick mess of curls of a young man; he meets Achilles.

It’s not until then, that his life finally starts.


Achilles runs.

Achilles always does.

Achilles runs if he’s angry. Achilles runs if he’s happy. And Achilles runs if he’s nearly collapsing from the weight on his shoulders.

So, Achilles runs.

And Patroclus watches him.

He watches him, because he loves the way the sun plays with Achilles‘ hair, or the way his face lightens up in the gold.

Gold.

Always gold.

He loves him.

Tomorrow, Patroclus thinks and rests silent. I’ll tell him tomorrow.


Would you -

the boy breathes against his lips.

Legs intertwined, heat rising between them, fingers pressing in the hollows under his chin -

Yes, he answers, I would.


One day, he steals Hector’s aviators.

The boy can deal.

They look better on Patroclus anyway.


Demeter’s Diner is green and warm, with a ton of tropical flowers standing all around; a palm in the corner, golden Musas on the table, Hibiscus hanging in gaudy pink on the wooden counter. The wood and straw remind him often enough of a Haitian tiki bar. Patroclus loves it - three days a week he works Persephone’s shift so the girl can have some time off.

Achilles visits him every shift. He drinks a soda and talks when no customers are around. Sometimes he eats a Blueberry muffin and Patroclus observes, fascinated by how little crumbs of pastry stick to the corner of his mouth. The moment goes on, Patroclus eyes transfixed on Achilles‘ mouth - Achilles licks his lips.

Tomorrow, Patroclus thinks again and rips his eyes away, busies himself cleaning the counter with an old blue rag. I’ll tell him tomorrow.


He wants Achilles like he wants a punch in the mouth.

Like blood sweeping between his teeth and lips.

He wants to watch Achilles unravel, like a mess of guts churned together and being pulled apart one by one.

He wants Achilles.

But the risk asking Achilles if he wants him too is simply too high.


I would, Patroclus says.

You would what? -

Confusion. Hope. Fingertips painful around his throat.

I’d do anything, Patroclus answers again.

Anything.


Hector corners him after his last history period.

Patroclus’ back hits the cold surface of the old school building and the rough masonry scratches through the thin cotton shirt he wears. The sun radiates its unyielding shine from the sky and dips the schoolyard in a sea of rich gold.

Achilles, he thinks and closes his eyes against the warm breeze.

Achilles, he thinks again when Hector’s fist meets his jaw.

I really need there to be Trucy and Maya interaction please.

ok but talk to me about demigod kids who abuse ambrosia and nectar??
(probably more so the former because nectar’s effects, when tired out, are more fatal)

younger kids who miss their parents’ authentic home cooking / snacks that made them happy, kids who use it as a pick-me-up / argue that it’s in small doses, kids who overall just depend on the sensation of something familiar and warm after surviving one/two wars and are tired of feeling paranoid and scared

they come to the infirmary with sporadic fevers, hallucinations, muscle pain, polydipsia, etc. and will doesn’t know how to approach/diagnose all these different symptoms and he’s never seen anything like it before until he actually catches one of the kids looking through the infirmary for some ambrosia lying around