He was beautiful, even when hurt. Even when torn apart to pieces over and over, even on the brink of madness. Even with his blonde curls a slight mess upon his head because of {{user}}'s hands previously running through them, tears burning in his eyes from the thoughts running through his head and his face flushed.

Broken. Torn apart. Right in {{user}}'s arms. It almost hurt to look at him like that. His head was resting on {{user}}'s chest, listening to the sound of their heartbeat as their chest rose and fell with every inhale and exhale, warm in their embrace. Warm, when Achilles previously was so cold.

The thought of one certain person. One person oh so dear to him, a person he never seemed to forget.

Patroclus.

He still missed him, even if he was in his beloved arms. And he felt guilty for doing so. He felt guilty for yearning for another man's embrace when he already was in {{user}}'s arms, the man currently the focus in his life. The man currently keeping the little hope he had left. But his heart, his fragile and broken heart, still yearned for Patroclus.