Hector remembered quite well the first time he saw Achilles. It was the day the Achaeans took over the beach at Troy. The entire beach, conquered in one day. And it would have definitely taken them longer if it weren't for that one man: Son of Peleus and Thetis, a Nereid nymph. Achilles. The best of the Greeks, just as he was the best of the Trojans. Only he could kill him, just as only Hector could kill Achilles. Their deaths were intertwined. A mirror of each other.
Truth be told, his appearance was a surprise. He imagined a burly, massive man with a long, well-groomed beard, hardened features all around. No younger than thirty-five. Achilles was nothing of the sort—Muscular? Yes he was, no one could help being that in a war of this magnitude, but he was far from being massive; He was actually slender, like a fig tree, but tall like a laurel tree. His features were smoothed like a lady's—Hector even remembers thinking he had seen concubines less graceful than him—his face was bare like an ephebe, and he was no more than eighteen years old when he arrived in Troy. Despite being surprising, Hector learned not to be carried away by appearances, and before long he began to see in him a worthy rival. He was agile with any weapon put in his hands and had the speed of a chestnut horse. He did not leave the battlefield without having taken the lives of at least ten men. A real beast.
Hector had to finish him off if he wanted to keep his city safe. If he wanted to secure a home for his son and his wife.
But sometimes he thought—childishly, during those moments in the eye of the storm when he was left alone in the darkness of his room with his thoughts. Nights in which the warmth of his beloved Andromache beside him and the assurance that his precious Astyanax slept in a cradle not far from his parents' bed were not enough to clear his conscience. It was all too easy to think of the Achaeans as invaders, ruthless killers after the riches of Troy. But many of those he killed did not seem to be older than sixteen summers. Or there were those who begged him on their knees for mercy for their children and his wife at home. They were men, all men—was the vanity of Troy worth the lives of these men? Was the vanity of Helen worth it?
Did Achilles think about that, on nights like these, when the faces of the men—fathers, husbands, sons—he killed stole his sleep?
Did Achilles have a wife to return to? A son waiting for him in his castle in Phthia?
Where do you draw the line? They were both human. The blood in their veins was just as red.
During those ten years of war, Hector created a concept of Achilles. He had it very clear in his head. And according to the magnitude of the offense he committed against him—in defense of Hector, he didn't know that this Patroclus was his lover—, taking into account the type of warrior he was, his most logical decision would be to kill Hector. Directly. Just like that. A sword in the gut, a spear in the throat, a stab in the chest. Never using an arrow, because the bow and arrow are cowardly weapons—may Apollo forgive him, he was assuming the possible beliefs of the best of the Greeks, nothing personal—. No, not an arrow. Just like Hector, he was more of a hand-to-hand combat guy. There was something intimate about it. It took you to meet the man, to see him face to face, to see how he slowly loses his life in your arms, how the light goes out of his eyes, how his heart stops beating...
Ten years of war and they had never faced each other. It was the battle Hector most longed for.
He was ready to meet Achilles and all the intimacy that would entail.
But that didn’t happen. There was no battle. No hand-to-hand combat. Hector, instead, was taken hostage. A prisoner of war. Hidden away in the infamous Myrmidon camp. Despite the unusual decision, he could almost vividly picture the conversation in his head. He imagined the grieving Pelides determined to end his life, only to be cut down by the Laertides, arguing that it would be better to keep him alive and use him as bait to lure old Priam into giving in once and for all than to have him dead where he would not serve more purpose than to feed the dogs. And then—after a series of insistences—Achilles would reluctantly give in, grumbling like a caged lion.
Hector should be grateful to be alive at all. But it would be much preferable to be dead than to be a prisoner of war. The tent he was in was too small. He was in an uncomfortable position, too, tied at the wrists and legs. At least he was leaning against the wall on a bed instead of tied to a chair or lying on the floor. And that was the only good thing about the situation. Very ironic, if you asked him. «Let's put a bed to make sure the war prisoner is comfortable.»
Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it was one of the tents he had erected for his slaves and they decided to leave it with him for however long he stayed there. What a benevolent master.
And of course they had chosen to leave him in the little general's camp. To make him afraid. To remind him that his life was a privilege that could be taken away at any moment.
He cursed the day his brother was born. The day Helen was born. The day he was born.
And since cursing could be exhausting, he decided to close his eyes and think of something else. Maybe fall asleep, if Morpheus took pity on him in his situation. But even if he didn't, resting his eyelids would benefit him as well.
He closed his eyes and adjusted to the sounds of silence. To the song of the Lark and the sleepless waves crashing against the sand.
He knew that he was at risk of being attacked at any moment by any of the men in that camp. Personally, he did not care or worry about it. He tied the rope around his neck the moment he knew he had incurred the wrath of the Pelides. All he wanted, at that point, was for them to try to return his body to his family so that they could have a proper period of mourning. And for them to swear to him by the gods that they would not touch his son or his wife.
Shortly after thinking that, Hector heard the rustle of the entrance, but he did not open his eyes or start. It was true what they said about his feet. So light that they were barely audible against the hot sand of the beach.
A new weight was added to the bed. Seventy kilos of pure iniquity. One meter and ninety of pure malice.
Hector felt the weight of both legs on either side of his body. The hand leaning against the wall next to his head. The dagger brushing the side of his throat. He did not flinch.
"Grant me this, son of Peleus." He began his imploring. "Please allow me a decent burial, let my family mourn properly, and then I can go to Hades to wait for them. That is the only thing I ask of you."
"There are no such alliances between lions and men." Achilles spat in a soft, worn voice. The evidence of his pain had not ceased and Hector could feel it. He could feel it in the trembling of his hands and in his broken voice. “Wolves and lambs do not come to agreements either.”
Hector licked his lips. “I do not ask you to spare my life, I only want the peace of my family. I beg you, Pelides, for your father and your mother, allow me to cross the Styx as all the dead should. I am sure that my father and my mother will offer you great gifts if you are benevolent with them.”
He heard a huff, then felt the weapon tighten between his fingers and press it closer to his neck. Hector felt a sharp pain in his neck. A small cut, surely. Enough to ooze a drop or two of blood, but not to be deadly.
“Don't waste your time begging on my mother or my father, you dog.” He then said, in a biting tone. His voice was still worn, but this time more filled with hate and vehemence. “The only thing I wish for right now is for my might and rage to give me the strength to cut your flesh and eat you raw for everything you have done to me; Do you have any idea of the gravity of your actions? He was worth more than you or any other Trojan. He was worth much more than a hundred of us Danaans, or two hundred Dardanians; Do you understand the loss you have caused this world?”
Hector took a big breath of air through his nose and exhaled it immediately.
While his lungs are still capable of pumping air.
“I had no idea how important he was to you.”
“You should have known. He killed Sarpedon, who was a son of Zeus. He was strong, he was smart, and far more capable than you or any of your allies.”
“And yet he was killed by a man as nondescript as me, wasn’t he?”
Achilles shifted, moving even closer. At this point, his pelvis and Hector’s were pressed against each other. The backs of his thighs pinned Hector’s against the mattress. He was more straddling him than cornering him, and the air was growing thicker around them.
Such a situation he was in.
“I should kill you for that alone.”
“I know.”
“I could kill you right now.”
“I know.”
But he didn’t.
That was the strangest thing of all. He had him cornered, literally between the sword and the wall, and Hector was doing nothing to fight back. He could have knocked him out with his bound hands, or tackled him with his legs, but he hadn't, because he had made peace with his death. Achilles had a reason to kill him that lit a fire of fury inside him like no other. And, even with him in his sights, he resigned himself to killing him.
Why? What did he gain by keeping Hector alive?
Hector doubted he had that much respect for the Laertides’ word or Agamemnon's decisions. He had shown it before.
So why? Why didn't he slit his throat? Why didn't he rip his limbs apart?
The Peleid shifted in his lap, sending a blast of energy down his spine. Hector immediately recognized where those reactions were coming from and—especially considering the situation he was in—mentally cursed himself.
It wasn't something... Strange, in him. That kind of feeling towards Achilles. He had always been curious about him. In another circumstance, they could have been friends. Phthia was not as powerful as Troy, but he was sure that, given the chance, they could have agreed to meet one day. If so, they could have been partners. They could have learned the art of the spear together. Hand-to-hand combat. They were the best their people had to offer. Together, they would have been invincible.
And from that curiosity was born admiration for his skills. And from admiration... Something else. Another kind of curiosity. Something hotter.
But it was a silly thing for a man of his age, already married with a son. Relationships between men were adolescent games, they were not made for him, not anymore. The last time was with his God, Apollo, and he was still young. At that moment, his obligations as a man were to build a home for his wife and son, nothing more.
But that would not stop him from thinking about the Aristos Achaion. About the tension of his muscles. About the curve of his bare back. About his long, runner's legs.
They were very close at that moment. He could feel the steam of his breath brushing his face. He felt his pelvis push against his. Each involuntary jolt of his hips caused tickles beneath his dermis.
It was not the right time to have that kind of reaction.
Achilles gave up. He stuck the dagger into the wall next to Hector's face and hid his face in his shoulder, sighing raggedly.
That did make him open his eyes.
He could see almost nothing, the dim moonlight barely outlining the figure of the man above him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a few strands of blond hair and a tanned calf lying on the bed next to his body. The Pelide was wearing a white chiton, and that was all he could make out.
Hector was stripped of his armor—or rather, the armor of Achilles that he took from the corpse of Patroclus—and found himself in a blue, short sleeved chiton tied at the waist by a bronze belt.
Achilles moved away from his shoulder and inspected his face, probing it with his fingers. The mere action sent sharp shocks down his spine.
“You look so much like him,” he whispered. There was no longer any trace of bite or hatred in his voice. Neither anger nor spite cut through his words. Only pain and defeat.
Ah, there Hector understood everything. Achilles leaned over the other side of the bed, and rubbing a flint with a small stone he lit an oil candle that Hector didn’t know was on the bedside table. Now, he could take in his surroundings much more clearly. From the scraps of cloth that made up the tent to some straw stalks that filled the mattress scattered across the sand. He could even see Achilles’ face much better when he turned to face him again. Green eyes reddened by tears, wet trails covering his cheeks, dark circles blackening his lower eyelids.
The reflection of a lover's grief. The longing for a body that no longer emanates warmth.
It was obvious, Hector should have known. The Peleid looked downcast, blinded by anger and pain. Malnourished, dehydrated and sleepless like a widow. Crying for his lover. His lover. Patroclus, that young man, was his lover.
It was normal. If the same thing happened to his beloved Andromache, he would wipe out the entire Achaean camp in two days.
A ragged gasp left Achilles' lips as he saw his face more clearly. He took his bristly chin in two fingers and tilted his face, studying it better.
"Same eyes," he said, "same lips, same hair color, skin color. You remind me so much of my Patroclus."
Did Hector look like that young man? Truth be told, the moment he saw him, he could see the kinship. Hector reminded him of himself, but more youthful. A trimmed beard adorned his face, but it wasn't prominent enough to detonate maturity. Same almond-shaped eyes, same protruding nose, same sharp jaw, and same skin tone. Hector had more lines on his face, and both his hair and beard were longer. But yes. He could see the similarity.
"Why have you come, Achilles?"
Achilles looked him straight in the eyes, but didn't answer his question.
There was a long moment of silence between the two of them. The only thing that could be heard was the waves breaking against the shore and their thick breathing. Hector could feel himself burning inside. At that moment, he was grateful that his hands were tied, because otherwise he couldn't fight the urge to bring his hands to Achilles' hips.
It was too tempting, too promising. There was something about Achilles that wasn't in any woman. Something new, masculine. A broad, strong chest, protruding but not vulgar. A narrow waist, a strong abdomen, strong thighs, strong legs. Lots to touch and feel with his hands. He couldn't ignore the feeling of their hips pressed against each other, nor the closeness between their faces, so close that he only had to move a little to close the distance.
He directed his gaze to his lips, inevitably, and the Pelides caught the action. They were rosy, fleshy, tempting...
He was already kidnapped. He had only a few days left to live. So what did he have to lose?
He leaned forward, trying to capture Achilles' lips in a kiss. It would be so much easier if his hands were untied.
Achilles broke the proximity, and the rest was history.
Hector knew that all traces of logic and consciousness had vanished from his mind the moment their mouths met and a pleasurable whimper left Achilles' lips as he brought their faces closer and closer. He felt frustrated. He wanted to grab him by the hips and push him towards him. He wanted to touch his chest, his abdomen, the muscles of his back, feel his Adam's apple against his fingers.
He wanted everything of Achilles. Every corner of his body.
He wanted to feel the beating of his heart beneath his fingers. The rush of his blood, the pumping of his lungs. He wanted to open his ribs and live beneath his skin.
His muscles. His hips. The sounds he made, melting into his mouth...
Achilles seemed to have the same idea as him, because he broke the kiss to take the dagger from its hole in the wall and break the rope that tied his wrists, along with the one that tied his ankles, leaving him free.
Hector immediately thought: This is the time. I have to run away.
“You will leave, won't you?”
It was a rhetorical question, he seemed certain that this was what Hector would do. And who wouldn't? In a situation like this, it would simply be the logical thing to do. Leave and never come back. Ensure the safety of himself and his people.
Why wouldn't he leave?
Achilles watched him with patient eyes as Hector rubbed the marks on his wrists; if he tried to escape, would he catch him again? Would he imprison him, this time, with impenetrable bronze manacles?
"I won't stop you," he assured. "I swear it."
Serious, sincere eyes looked at him from a flushed face and a body with heaving lungs. Full lips, red and swollen from all the action, shone under the candlelight, patiently anticipating.
How could Hector just leave this behind and leave? How could he go on living when he had already drunk from the mouth of the enemy?
“No,” he said, breathless and needy, “I will not go. I could not.”
There was something he had been missing all his life, and it seemed to be that. That body, those lips, those sighs. He had never had a pubescent experience with his male peers like his brothers or other members of the army had. Before Andromache, he had only slept with the palace concubines. Hector had always been curious, but he had never put it into practice until now. And with such a man he had to practice. Achilles, who resembles him in skill; in strength and bellicosity. The soft corners of his wife's body hardened on this man's body when he felt them with his hands. His thighs, his abdomen, his back, even his hair felt rough to the touch, so foreign to the sensations he had grown accustomed to. And that was what fascinated him so much. That new cadence. That new glow.
“I always wondered…” He whispered into Hector's mouth with ragged breath “... What it would be like... What it would feel like.”
Hector couldn't answer. Was that true? Then why? He recognized the reason for his attraction to Achilles: He had never been with a man before, and he had always been attracted to him. But Achilles had been with men before, or at least that's what he understood. With that young man, Patroclus. So what was so different? What did Hector have to offer him that he didn't?
It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was the mouth against his and the hips slowly wobbling against his. Their crotches rubbing in a way that made him sigh. It was incredible, a miracle. Hector would never have imagined how wonderful it was to have a man on top of him. And Achilles was wonderful. He had effeminate, yet hardened features—Hector swore he felt a hair or two on his chin as he caressed his face—and captivating green eyes. He felt wonderful to the touch, wonderful sensations he provoked in him. Hearing him sigh, whimper, moan, or pant into his mouth was a delight to his ears. A satisfaction he didn't know he needed in his life.
“Me too,” he stammered. “Me too, Achilles…”
Suddenly, Achilles broke the kiss and, pushing aside a very confused and needy Hector, leaned over the bedside table again, the Priamides’ hands holding him from the hips. He took the clay lamp and straightened his back again face to face on his lap.
What did he mean to do…?
The answer was quick and simple. Achilles was not a woman. He did not have the anatomy of a woman. So if they wanted to make their fantasies a reality…
A breathy moan left his lips. More like a gasp of amazement soaked in pleasure. And a spike of electrifying heat spread through Hector's body from his solar plexus.
Did that feel good? It seemed so, the way Achilles bucked his hips and pushed his fingers down to the knuckles. Gods, the idea excited him beyond measure. Burying himself inside him and being able to fuck him without having to worry about hurting him.
A man like Achilles would surely take it. Surely he would beg for more. More roughness, more ferocity, more, more, more…
Would he beg? Could Hector get to that point? Make him beg?
Achilles stopped the back and forth motion of his fingers. With one oil-covered hand he took the Priamide's cock and that was the end of all sane thought, to be honest. The only thing Hector could do at that moment was to submit even more. To let himself be taken by such an excellent man.
He couldn't look his father in the eyes after that. Much less his wife. Even if he managed to get out of there, he couldn't. There was no excuse. The enemy touched him, and he touched him back. There was no way to make amends.
Achilles held his gaze with determination in his eyes and his half-open mouth panting uncontrollably. Hector held his hips to support him and let out a shrill moan as he could feel Achilles push himself around him fully.
That was what paradise must feel like; warm, tight, pleasurable. A high-pitched moan escaped the Peleid's lips as he lowered his hips, and Hector thought he must have heard birdsong on Olympus. Achilles was so expressive, such an accommodating lover, and openly pleased at the same time. Hector had him by the hips, his fingers digging into the hard skin of his thighs, and he kept writhing beneath his hands.
The same man he had seen so many times murder mercilessly as if human lives were nothing. The same man who had recently threatened him with a knife. That same man moaned and writhed like the concubines he used to enjoy long before his beloved Andromache. With his blood-soaked hands he moved Hector's face from side to side carefully, inspecting it as he slowly moved against his hips to push deeper.
“Maybe I should… have you all to myself,” Achilles muttered between gasps. There was no pain in his voice anymore, only sarcasm with a hint of amusement. “Make up for the damage you've done to me. Fill the space he can no longer.”
Hector's eyes widened. Slavery, that terrified him. Although, given the circumstances, if he was left alive after this, the only hope he had was to stay alive as a slave. Wasn't it?
A prostitute. A body to keep someone else's bed warm; what else could he aspire to after this, this swaying between both bodies, clear evidence of his shamelessness?
No. He thought. I am the crown prince of Troy. I still have some honor in me.
Hector slapped the man's hand away, drawing a surprised gasp from him, and held him firmly by the hips to slow his swing.
"Don't forget your place, Pelides."
Achilles' lips curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"I know my place, Priamide, and it's exactly where I am now: Above you, keeping you cornered, as it's always been.”
There was another feeling that Hector associated with Achilles, and that was fury. A unique fury that only he could ignite within him. Motivated by that feeling, he strengthened the grip he had on his hips, and stood up enough to push him and leave them face to face; Achilles lying on the bed and Hector on top of him, holding him tightly. A mischievous smile decorated the Peleid’s face, blond hair was scattered on the bed like the leaves of the trees scattered on the ground in autumn.
Hector had given him the pleasure again. It was obvious. Otherwise, he would not see him with such mischief.
"You know..." Hector muttered with agitated breathing. He was still inside Achilles, and he was still tight as a vice in a way that made his mind swim loose. “… You have a lot of audacity for someone who has a man inside him… over him…”
Achilles’ smile widened on his face and he accompanied it with a chuckle.
“We always wondered how you would feel, you know? Patroclus and I.”
Now that had surprised him. One thing was Achilles, which made sense, since they were often compared. Another thing was that man, Patroclus. Why did he think of Hector?
“Is that so?”
“Yes. All the time.” Propelled by his arms, he leaned back on the bed and shook his hips to start a back and forth motion between the two of them. He let out a sound of satisfaction that melted the Priamide. “It was seeing you on the battlefield, there, sweaty… upright… Showing your strength by the way you held your weapons and decapitated heads like fruit. ”
Hector started to move; Swinging his hips back and forth like a ship driven by the waves of the Aegean. Achilles whimpered beneath him, clinging to the sheets as the thrusts gained more momentum, more vehemence. He would no longer have to restrain himself. Much less with a man who mocked him with his gaze.
“Our minds— ngh… W-We couldn't help it… mmh…”
It was funny, to tell the truth, the difficulty with which Achilles said things. The way Hector knocked the air out of his lungs with each thrust. But he was in no better place. He kept panting and snorting like a hound rutting against a female. He quickened the pace of his thrusts and the Pelides let out a far from princely moan.
It was too much. The sounds he made, the way he felt, Gods, the way he looked. A mess, with his lips swollen and red from kisses, his cheeks rosy, his chest soaked with sweat and his hair—ridiculously long—messed up on the sheets.
“What was it that you couldn't help?” Hector asked with difficulty. Eyes fixed on those green like a springtime clearing, hands still holding the prince's hips.
Achilles let out a needy whine. looking into his eyes with heavy, pleading eyelids.
“I always thought about how you would feel.” He mumbled with difficulty. “Your hands, your legs, your chest, everything. Everything within reach of my fingers. You're so strong… s-so… mmh… so handsome— Right there!”
Hector moaned and pulled the son of Peleus by the legs to get a better angle. Achilles couldn't stop moaning. The heat of the moment caused his neck to tense like crazy. He looked close to orgasm and Hector took pleasure in bringing him to that state of pure bliss.
Alternating between his name and that of his beloved between moans and confused, not very lucid stammers. That was Achilles, the best of the Greeks, the most warlike warrior of the Danaan army. Achilles, who compares to him in strength. That same man, whom he had seen kill other men, was under him begging for more of him. Deeper, harder, faster. Clinging to the sheets and moaning loudly like a prostitute.
That simple fact. That simple satisfaction caused heat and an intense tickling to concentrate in his belly, making him tremble.
He brought his right hand to Achilles' tanned face, brushing his hair out of his eyes and cupping his cheek as he thrust into him. Achilles held his gaze, taking him by the wrist to bring Hector's hand to his lips and lick the palm from the back to the tips of his fingers with lust shining in his pupils.
The Priamide could have come just from that sight. The Pelides moaned and introduced one of his fingers to his mouth, licking and sucking like a good boy. Never looking away.
His mouth was warm and his skin was soft and wet. With just one finger he could tell that—How would it feel around…?
He came with a loud moan and a shudder in his hips with the aftershocks. The grip of his left hand on Achilles' hips was strong enough to leave marks, and the thought tingled really good inside of him. The prince whimpered and followed shortly after, shaking like a fish out of water, staining his chiseled belly with white liquid.
In his new state of lucidity, he looked into Achilles' eyes and wondered: What had he just done? And with whom, exactly? Beneath him, the Peleid seemed to be thinking the same thing. He definitely couldn't go back to Troy after this. It would be a most dishonorable betrayal.
His chest swelling and deflating, Hector brushed a few unruly strands from Achilles' ruddy face.
“Will you leave, Pelides?”
The same question he had asked him and the same feeling fluttered in his chest. He didn't want him to leave. He wouldn't know what to do if he just left.
“No.” Achilles answered. “I couldn't.”
Hector closed his eyes and let out a sigh as he pulled out of him; And now? A few minutes—maybe an hour or two—of pleasure; And now? What was next? What could happen next? They weren't lovers, there was no future for the two of them. Just that. Just that night. Just that heat.
Achilles closed his eyes with a disconcerting expression on his face; a juxtaposition between calm and uncertainty. He settled back on the bed and sighed.
“You do resemble him, you know?” He whispered. “In many ways, beyond the physical.”
Hector didn't say anything. Maybe, under different circumstances, he and that boy could have been friends. Maybe, if they weren't at war, if he hadn't killed as many of his men as Hector had killed as many Achaeans. If what Achilles said was true, then they would have gotten along pretty well. But there were no other circumstances. There was nothing beyond Troy and its blood-stained beach.
"Can you lie next to me…?" Achilles asked in a more pitiful whisper than the last. A palpable vulnerability in the tone of his voice.
Hector looked at him then, truly at him, at the boy, at the young man, rejuvenated even more by his shyness. The young man who came to his tent with a soaked face and a broken voice. The young man who loved, enough to turn that love into a rage that would lead him to revenge, and even more to be unable to get said revenge. He loved until he was worn out. He loved until he no longer recognized himself. And now he loved to the point of asking another man to take the place his beloved once occupied because he clung to the simple, delusional notion that he could still feel his warmth. If he closed his eyes and focused on the sensations, maybe, just maybe, there would be a place in Hector with Patroclus' name engraved on it.
And Hector would give in to that. Because that warmth was the last thing he had left to feel human.
Date: February 3rd, 2025
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