Together they were like gods, caring for nothing but the slide of warm skin and the feeling of immortal power pulsing through their veins. Lips caressed flesh and a desire like flames engulfed their bodies well into the night. Each touch felt fresh and each word muttered into shoulders spread to cover them in happiness, lust, and love.
"You are so beautiful, Patroclus," Achilles gasped as Patroclus thrust between his thighs. "S-so perfect. Your look in this moment could kill every Trojan on the battlefield."
Patroclus bit into Achilles's shoulder, spilling onto the man beneath him.
Achilles remembered his words the next night as he lay in grief over the body of his beloved. He tore at his hair and pounded Patroclus's chest, begging him to come alive once more, to shine as he once did.
"I said your looks could kill, my heart," he sobbed into Patroclus chest. "And they have killed you."