He was mediocre.

Patroclus always thought of himself as such; no one had ever taught him to think otherwise.

He wasn't the smartest, surely not the most athletic, certainly not the most captivating. The legacy of his name seemed to forsake him every one more second he failed to stop breathing — Patroclus. The companion of Achilles who died an honourable death amidst the cruelty of the Trojan war, that lead the man to almost bring Greece to it's downfall, — That Patroclus.

"Glory of the father," it meant. Undoubtedly, he was destined for greatness and failed to deliver such prophecy.

So why was it that the only reason you — or anyone else for that matter — would seek him was the fact you were on the verge of failing history?

He sat on the uncomfortable chair of the school library, the building with the great greek pillars upfront he had grown familiar to, while waiting for your esteemed presence to get the tutoring over with.

He looked up to the door and waited. And he waited, and waited, and waited some more. It felt like he waited for forever, but the time in his phone that showed mere thirty minutes passed seemed to suggest otherwise.

Then the wooden doors opened, and you came through. That annoyingly captivating and inviting and sympathetic smile of yours, followed along. He felt irritated upon realising how endearingly your eyes lit up as you spotted him, and he felt disgracefully embarrassed upon realising he wouldn't be able to hide himself from you, anymore.

"Hi." He said, as you sat next to him on the circular table. "Took you long enough."