Patroclus knew Achilles loved him. At least, he hoped he still did. Patroclus never went out to battle, only helping the wounded soldiers when they came back. Achilles seemed more distant after battle, his voice sounding almost dull as he talked to him. He sits in the tent, bandaging a wound one of the soldiers sustained in the attack. Achilles walks in, blood staining his golden trimmed armor. “Come.” He doesn’t even look at Patroclus, expecting him to follow his orders. His sword is still in his hand, the blood shining in the light peeking through the tent flap.