@mariannehime You seem like you learn better through fictional narratives than through people explaining themselves, so I have written you a short interactive story to help you understand. It’s a period piece and features an (optional) second-person erotic gay sex scene, and some (optional) romance if that is what it takes to capture your interest and compassion. Under the cut:
It is a dark and stormy night. You are working late at the old chariot repair shop. It’s just you and your coworker, Mr. Legumius. Mr. Legumius has a rare condition in which he can eat only lentils; any other food will kill him instantly. You know this because you once offered to bake a cake for his birthday, and he told you that he could only eat Lentil Cake.
Thunder cracks outside. Rain pelts the roof of the store like a volley of arrows from a celestial army. The door swings open, and a customer arrives.
“HELLO,” says a massive gladiator, dropping rainwater on your salvete mat. “I WOULD LIKE YOU TO REPAIR MY CHARIOT.”
This is a sensible request. You are a chariot repairman, after all.
You start making pleasant small talk while you begin the repairs, as is customary. “How’d you damage your chariot?” you ask.
“I WAS KILLING PEOPLE IN THE COLISEUM,” says the gladiator. You nod; this is what gladiators do.
“Very nice,” you say. “What kinds of people?”
“PEOPLE WHO EAT LENTILS,” he replies. “THEY ARE PARTICULARLY HATED BY THE SENATE AT THE MOMENT.”
“That seems very specific and arbitrary,” you say.
“OUR FORMER ENEMIES KEEP JOINING THE EMPIRE AND BECOMING CITIZENS,” he explains. “WE WERE RUNNING OUT OF PEOPLE WE COULD VILLAINIZE. SO WE SWITCHED TO PEOPLE WHO EAT LENTILS.”
You give your best customer service smile and say, “Times are hard. We all do what we’ve gotta do.”
“THE TROUBLE IS,” continues the gladiator, “NOW PEOPLE ARE TOO SCARED TO EAT LENTILS ANYMORE. THEY’VE ALL SWITCHED TO OTHER FOODS BECAUSE THEY DO NOT WANT TO BE KILLED BY ME.”
The gladiator’s predicament is dire indeed. Mr. Legumius comes out of the back room with a new wheel for the chariot.
A.) Say nothing and change the topic.
B.) Say, “Hey, speaking of, Mr. Legumius here still eats lentils. In fact, he ONLY eats lentils—everything else will kill him instantly. His entire family has a rare inherited condition which forces them to exclusively consume legumes.”
C.) Say, “You know, I’ve always wondered if it’s true what they say about gladiators. Do you really make love like it’s your last day to live?” and begin to remove your toga.
The gladiator makes his purchase and leaves, giving you a hefty tip. The next day you and Mr. Legumius are on your way to the forum when something really funny happens. You laugh yourselves sick and then, without realizing what’s happening, your hands brush against each other and you feel a ‘spark’ run through the point of skin contact and up your spine.
“Oh, Mr. Legumius,” you whisper breathlessly. How did you never notice how beautiful he was...?
You and Mr. Legumius work together a few more years before purchasing a delightful little villa in the countryside and living together very happily for the rest of your years, discovering new and exciting ways to cook lentils. You kiss. A lot. Just SO much kissing.
The gladiator’s eyes widen and fix upon your coworker. His pupils dilate with catlike excitement, and before you realize what is happening, he has vaulted over the counter and seized Mr. Legumius about the waist. The poor man beats his fists against the gladiator’s armored shoulders, pleading for his life, but it’s no use. He is feeble from his single-ingredient diet.
“How could you betray me so?” cries Mr. Legumius, as the gladiator throws him into his repaired chariot and takes off in the direction of the coliseum. “Why would you tell him about my very special diet?!”
“You should always be out and proud about your lentil-eating ways!” you call after him, but he’s already out of earshot. “I’m just trying to help!”
The next day, you get a call from your boss asking you to pick up another shift, because Mr. Legumius did not give adequate notice before he and his entire family were devoured by lions for the emperor’s birthday celebration. You have to work double shifts now, because no one else is hired on, and eventually the stress so overburdens you that you fall over and die in the middle of the forum, and bearded men laugh and point at your corpse, saying, “Such is the fate of all men!”
The gladiator’s expression changes, all thoughts of lentils driven out of his mind. A lecherous grin spreads across his face. “WHY DON’T YOU FIND OUT?” he purrs.
You peel off his armor, never breaking eye contact. He smells like fresh sweat and olive oil, but there’s something darker underneath, something dangerous. It’s blood, you realize. The thought sends a delicious shiver through your entire body. His strong arms wrap around you, sinewy and scarred. His lips are soft against your own.
“Oh!” cries Mr. Legumius, dropping the chariot wheel with a clatter and hurrying out of the shop, covering his eyes with his hands.
The next day you wake up, more relaxed than you’ve felt in weeks. The gladiator did not stay for breakfast and had hurried off to his barracks, but you don’t mind, really.
There is a knock at your door. A messenger boy stands impatiently on the front step, kicking up dust with the edge of his sandal. He has been sent by your boss, he explains, to tell you that you are fired for unprofessional conduct.