LONG MAY IT LAST - commodus x reader
summary: amongst the quiet of death, commodus finds you.
a/n: yayee my first fic post! i'm hoping this is well received and well written, i don't often post my writing but uhmm.. i wanted to so here we are ˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶ reader is a blank slate, tried to keep it as vague and gender neutral as i could. likes, reblogs & comments appreciated. please enjoy! ao3 link
warnings: major character death, canon typical violence, blood, injury description, general angst & all the good stuff, hurt/comfort, commodus cries, dual pov, second/third person narrative, not proof-read, no use of y/n. heed these warnings and proceed with caution!
When he fell, he had never expected Rome wouldn't go with him.
A challenge, he had proposed. Spite and rage and envy, it all mixed into one, intolerable tightness in his chest. Maximus wasn't who they wanted- it never would be. It had to be him, didn't it? Him that they cheered for, him who's name they cried in the streets and him who lived through eternal glory.
It was ironic, where that want got him.
The colosseum devolved from violent jeers and excitable cries into dead, still silence. Not mournful, no. Not for him, at least- never for him. The women cried for Maximus, the men exchanged silent transactions and amongst it all, he listened. He waited. No cries came for him, no lips wept his name. Only blood, heavy and sticky in his throat as his chest tightened and his body convulsed with a desperate cough.
His fingers twitched, aching to reach out. Towards what, he didn't know. Perhaps a last attempt at reminding himself he was still there, amongst it all. Still alive to hear the hatred, the relief of a tyrant's death, a sort of pain that didn't need words to be understood. It entirely overshadowed the tight, suffocating throb in his neck, shooting up his jugular and towards his forehead in a splitting ache.
For all he did, they hadn't cared.
But alas, he lay there, head against the hot sand as he stared up at the pure blue sky. Clouds rolled, birds sang, and if he knew any better? Perhaps it was an ordinary day. Perhaps he was in the palace, or Lanuvium, years ago. Only his mind mattered now, he supposed. If he was to let go, he would do so on his own accord. Not by the need to please his long dead father, not by the need to chase Lucilla's love. No- he'd do it differently.
The gardens were warmed by the ever looming sun, decorated with more flowers than you cared to name, backdropped by the steady trickle of fountains and rush of servants in the domus behind you. The scroll in your lap was worn well with love, a precious thing. Unfurled in your hands, it curled inwards towards the corners and the parchment had torn at the edges, the ink cracked and dry, yet the words discernible. Memorable.
You heard him, before you saw him.
"You gaze upon that scroll as if it were more precious than me." His tone was lilted with teasing, quiet humour as his steps resumed, approaching the marble bench you had perched upon. Your head lifted, eyes squinting in the Roman sun to make out his silhouette. Regal, proud, even as a shadow. "You know nothing is more precious to me than you are, Commodus." You murmur, although your tone holds no exhaustion, no shyness. If anything, it held an admiration that seemed to please him, as with a quaint smile, he lowered himself to sit beside you.
The gardens cast a view over the lower country, far ocean. Rome sat to your right, the colosseum an ever protruding landmark amongst mazes of streets. You cast your gaze out to the distant ocean, whilst his remained on you. For a while, it was quiet. The gentle breeze in the leaves, the crinkle of parchment, steady breathing, all coming to form something you figured resembled peace. "Do you think of crossing the ocean?" You asked suddenly, and Commodus looked at you strangely, his brow furrowed. He followed your gaze, looking out to the steady blue.
"That's laughable. Why should I dream of leaving Rome?"
"I don't know."
Your answer wasn't entirely truthful, and he seemed to realise that, as he turned his attention back to you with a newfound look of concern. Not a rare thing, but somehow, it surprised you nonetheless. You swallowed, and lowered your head to slowly roll up the scroll. "Yes, you do." He called you out, and you fought back a wince. For a moment you were quiet, casting him a sidelong glare. "I know." You said. He was quiet, unmoving, as if his sudden stillness would will you towards giving an answer. And somehow, it did.
Rome had been your home since your wedding. One out of political goodness, you hadn't meant to fall for him, initially. You had heard the rumours, mostly bad, surrounding his name- yet the union had gone through nonetheless, and you had found yourself pleasantly at ease with Commodus. Tales of arts, poetry, extravagant meals and countless baths, melancholic staring upon the city, fingers fumbling against ties and warm palms over bare skin. It was all done together, and yet selfishly, you wished for a different life. Quieter, humble. Just the two of you, in some quaint homestead nestled in a silent valley, steadfast in undying love and burning loyalty. Not that you couldn't have it, but you knew he didn't want it. He hungered for power, lapped up every lick of it whenever he could, despite how his own claims differed. "I don't know if I want to leave. I don't think I do, truly." You whisper, and he leans in, encouragingly gentle. "But often I find myself wanting something different."
He didn't pry, but watched with as close to understanding as he could get from your vague description. "Something quieter, I suppose. With you, I think of something quaint." You finish, not particularly eager to potentially embarrass yourself in front of the man you called a husband. But when you snuck a glance at him, there was no mockery on his face. Only a certain understanding you knew you wouldn't find with anyone else. "That's beautiful." He complimented, and you flushed. "I suppose." Commodus drew back with a sigh, his arm reaching out until his hand covered your own, holding your fingers. "You sadden me. I can feel myself wishing for that, too." He murmured, and as he looked out to the ocean, his gaze took on the same distant want as your own. You didn't know what to say, and so you moved your hand to hold his. Raising it to your mouth with a gentle kiss pressed to his knuckles, you had his attention reeling back to you only moments after. "Perhaps in another time." You sympathised, meeting him halfway as he leaned forward in search of love. Your lips met in quiet tandem.
When he next woke, his surroundings were foreign.
The same blue sky, slow moving clouds, the same warmth. The pain was gone, he noted. No slim impalement to his neck, no blood dripping from his mouth or staining his armour- no heavy silence, no one to see him die in shame. What was this? Had he healed in an unconscious time? How long had it been? Perhaps he was hallucinating, perhaps this was exile. He didn't know. So, slowly, he lifted his head.
The movement was reluctant. He would much rather stay on the ground, bask in the sun some more before he gave into movement and the ache that would inevitably come with it. His head raised from the soft grass pillowing it, his palms flush against the green blades. Pushing himself up, he was momentarily dazed. That awfully splitting ache was gone, his throat was clear: he could breathe, take in mouthfuls of fresh, country air as he rose to stand on unsteady feet. He looked back at where he'd been laying. Grass, and a subtle imprint of his body. No feathered pillow, no imperial bed, nothing but grass and soil.
Humiliation, perhaps.
He raised a hand, rubbing at the back of his neck with an unsteady noise. Around him, the Italian countryside shifted quietly with the afternoon turning into day. Shadows were cast, elongated by the sun's constantly shifting position, birds sang and insects hummed, grass crunched quietly underfoot as he took wary steps forward. Guarded, uncertain. Paranoid. As he looked around, searching for some point of familiarity, he found it in the shape of a quietly quaint homestead and a familiar voice.
"I missed you."
The words were so simply spoken that it broke him instantaneously. Your figure, stood in the doorway, felt so unfamiliar that he almost felt guilt. He had struggled to remember your face on his own in the time that followed your own death: he had despised himself for it. Your body, your hair, your face. Everything down to your mannerisms, he had steadily forgotten, let it slip between his fingers like sand. And all he did was watch, helplessly. He uttered your name in a breath, and was moving towards you before he knew better.
His arms encircled your waist, pulling you flush to his chest as his nose pressed against your hair. Inhaling the familiar scent of you, the one imprinted onto the pillow he'd clung to at night, the one that'd met his wrath so many times. Commodus exhaled, something uneven and shaky, and you drew back just enough to meet his eye. "Don't cry." You murmured, and somehow, that made it a struggle not to. His eyes were wet with tears as he blinked, lashes fluttering as his brows furrowed with a poorly swallowed whimper. Your hand cupped his cheek and he leaned into it, letting the pad of your thumb stroke against his cheekbone, wipe away his tears. He didn't know how you were there, in front of him, but he didn't want to know. He didn't care, because with you in his arms safely returned to him, there was no thought nor care in his previous life that he wanted to revisit if they didn't involve you.
"I'm sorry." He blurted. He didn't know why. His inability to protect you, maybe. How he had let himself forget you, how he couldn't recall a clear memory without assistance. He watched through tears as your brow furrowed, gently shaking his head. "Why?" You whispered, and his chest heaved as he shuddered out a sob. "I let you go." He answered quickly, too quickly, and your finger pressed to his lips in a gently shushing gesture. It seemed to work, his sobs evened into shaken breathing as his gaze stayed stuck to yours, unable to wander. But he didn't want it to. "You had to. I don't blame you for it, there was nothing you could've done." You said, and that understanding, that blameless comfort, almost brought him to his knees. His chest tightened and his stomach churned as he brought his head forward. His nose nudged against your own, forehead bumping your own as his eyes closed.
"Truthfully?" He whispered through a sniffle, feeling the movement of your nod against him. Your lips found his in a chaste, gentle brush, but it didn't seem enough for him. His hands gripped your waist as he sought out your lips again, pressing them to his with all the passion years of loss had torn from him. His nose nudged and brushed your own, lips moving in a fashion that could only be described as clumsy. Desperate. Your hands moved to his hair, and he whimpered, drawing back with an indiscernible sound of relief. You were there, he reminded himself. You were real, he was holding you, kissing you. It wasn't some cruel jest, some tricky vision. It was real, and whilst he might not have been living, he knew this was as close to a real life as any man could have. "Truthfully." You echoed.
He knew then in that moment, as you took his hand and led him back inside, that this was what you had meant. All those years ago, in the gardens, this was what you wanted. The one thing he couldn't give you, until now. Perhaps in another time, you had said. Oh, did he wish he had listened. He knew now, though. And he would continue to know.
And long may it last.
