✧ w.c. 1.7k words
✧ chapter tags/warning(s). no use of y/n, historical inaccuracies, empress!reader, pregnancy
✧ divider credit(s). @/divvision + @/cafekitsune
✧ a/n. written for @fredhechingerfrenzy’s Twins prompt for Caracalla month, & while it is part of the Dum Spiro, Spero universe, you don’t necessarily need to have read the rest of the fic to understand this one 🧡
✧ summary. Despite your midwife's and the emperors' orders to stay abed and off your feet, you slip away to visit the imperial gardens for some much needed fresh air. When your lovers finally find you, your unborn child manages to divert their displeasure and you make an astonishing discovery.
{ series masterlist }
Slipping carefully through the aviary’s decorative gate, you eased yourself to the fountain’s ledge and let out a sigh, glad to be off your feet. Beneath the dappled shade of the tree above, the cool breeze against your face felt like a long lost lover’s caress and you let your eyes flutter shut to enjoy it.
Though the walk had been tiring in your condition, you could no longer stand the stifling heat of the palace, desperate for some fresh air despite your husbands’ orders. Perched on your shoulder, Dondus chittered in your ear, his tiny fingers grasping your hair as he looked around in wonder, watching the movements of your doves high in the branches above with curiosity.
“You may play in the fountain, if you wish,” you murmured and the little monkey scampered down your arm to inspect the splashing water. Watching Dondus play, you smiled, resting your hand over your swollen stomach, a flutter of movement within giving you pause.
“Not much longer now, little one,” you murmured, wondering if your child could actually hear you.
Most nights, as you laid in bed, Geta and Caracalla would lie on either side of you, speaking softly to your womb—telling your child stories and how eager they were to meet him, or her—the tender sight always melting your heart. However, in the quiet moments, though they never voiced it, you could see the unspoken question linger behind their eyes, each wondering which of them was truly the father, and while officially, to all of Rome, any children you might have would be Caracalla’s, to you—it truly didn’t matter. In your eyes, they would belong to both, and you knew, deep down, both would love them the same.
The crunch of sandals on gravel caught your ear and Dondus perked up, turning away from the fountain’s spray toward the inner garden’s entrance at the sound of his master calling your name.
“I am here!” you replied, bracing yourself for your lovers’ inevitable displeasure.
“Columbina, what are you doing out here? You frightened us, we searched everywhere!” Caracalla cried, hurrying to your side to fuss over you, making sure you were alright.
“Caracalla is right, you should not have left the bed,” Geta chastised, a stern frown marring his face. “You heard what the royal physician and the midwife said about being on your feet for too long in your condition. You need to rest,” he argued, crouching at your side.
“I know,” you sighed, caressing Geta’s cheek and turning to press a kiss to Caracalla’s furrowed brow. “I just needed some fresh air, I was stifling in the palace,” you explained, giving Dondus a fond scritch when he scampered up to Caracalla’s shoulder and reached for you. “Besides, I am not on my feet at the moment,” you protested impishly.
Geta’s dark eyes rolled skyward at your argument and Caracalla’s frown only deepened. “You should have at least sent for a lectica and some servants to carry you, rather than walking all this way alone,” he huffed indignantly, though you had to admit the thought had never even crossed your mind—still not used to being doted on so—the idea making you somewhat uncomfortable.
“Calla, I assure you, I am fine,” you replied, cupping his face between your hands, though your words did little to assuage his concern.
“What if you had gone into labour early with no one nearby?” he countered, his lip pushing out in a pout before trembling. “I have heard that childbirth can be dangerous—that many women do not survive—and I cannot bear the thought of losing you!” he cried, the fearful look in his pale eyes piercing your heart. In truth, you had not considered how worried your husbands might be, underestimating the danger involved.
Quickly ignoring the flutter of unease in your stomach, you stroked Caracalla’s cheek. “But that did not happen. I am fine, and you are both here now to make sure I am taken care of. I am sorry I worried you,” you murmured, and while Caracalla seemed appeased by your words, Geta had noticed the flicker of fear in your eyes.
“How did your meeting with the senate go?” you asked, eager to steer the conversation away from you, and Caracalla brightened, a proud smile spreading across his face.
“It went well!” he exclaimed, letting Geta fill you in on the details.
“Yes, the trade agreements have been drawn up with the colonies and food production in the provinces has increased,” he murmured, his expression softening, knowing you had been a driving force behind these recent improvements—not just to Rome, but to him and his brother as well.
“That is wonderful news!” you insisted, beaming at each of them proudly, until another more insistent flutter of movement in your belly interrupted your thoughts. “Oh–!” you exclaimed, pressing your hand to your stomach with a wince. “The baby is kicking, do you want to feel?”
“I do!” Caracalla exclaimed, scooting forward to eagerly rest his hand over the curve of your stomach, searching for the movement, his eyes going wide with wonder as he felt it. “He is lively today! Brother you must feel!” he gasped and you guided Geta’s hand next to Caracalla’s.
“It seems so,” Geta chuckled softly, a smile curving his full lips.
“Are you growing bored of your confinement, little one?” Caracalla asked in amusement, stroking your stomach with his thumb.
“That’s strange,” you mumbled, feeling another kick, this time on the opposite side.
“What’s strange?” Geta asked, his smile fading, concern taking its place.
“Here,” you said, moving his hand as now you felt distinct movement in two places at once. “Do you think it may be possible I am carrying twins?” you asked. It was the first time the thought had crossed your mind, though it would certainly explain why you had grown much larger than you’d expected.
Caracalla’s brows rose as he caught Geta’s eyes—both of them stunned into silence for the moment.
“Twins?” Caracalla repeated, his lips twitching, finding himself pleased with the thought, especially if they turned out to both be boys.
“It is certainly possible,” Geta replied slowly. “More so since we are twins, I would think,” he reasoned.
“And with both of our seed, doubly so!” Caracalla exclaimed, though you were unsure if that would make a difference or not.
“Come, let us get you back to bed so we might consult with the midwife.”
With a nod, you let them help you to your feet, clinging to them as you made your way slowly back to the palace. As soon as you neared your quarters, Geta snapped at a nearby servant, sending him running to fetch your midwife.
By the time she arrived, you were back in bed, your swollen feet propped up on a cushion, with Caracalla massaging them and Geta pacing nearby. As soon as the midwife entered the room, both emperors jumped to attention, and though she curtsied to them, it was you her dark eyes fixed on.
“Your majesty, is something amiss?” she asked, moving closer, her tone brooking no nonsense.
“No, not necessarily—“ you began, when Caracalla interjected.
“Can you tell us if she is carrying twins?” he demanded, unable to hold his excitement back.
“Twins? It is possible… but I only felt one babe before—“ she mused—more to herself than anyone else. “May I, your majesty?” she asked, waiting for your nod before placing her hands over your swollen belly. “What makes you believe you are carrying twins?” she asked, her fingers pressing and prodding, feeling for the evidence you desperately wished for.
“Earlier, I felt movement in two separate places at the same time,” you explained, wincing slightly at the pressure from her fingers, her lips pressing together in concentration.
Suddenly, her hands stilled and her eyes widened. “Augusta, I believe you are correct,” she gasped, guiding your hand to show you what she’d felt. “Here, two sets of poles—the head and feet,” she explained as Caracalla and Geta rushed to your side to feel as well.
“Twins,” you murmured in awe, blinking back the tears gathering in your eyes as your throat grew thick with emotion.
Caracalla beamed at you, wiping the dampness from beneath your lashes before turning to share a look with Geta, and from the relief that spread across their faces, you could guess at their thought—a child for each of them. Twins just like them.
“It could not be more perfect,” Geta agreed, his soft gaze finding yours—the most he could do until the three of you were once more alone.
“Yes, well,” the midwife began, her demeanor going back to business. “While you may be doubly blessed, there is also double the potential for complications, so it is imperative that you must not leave this bed, except to bathe or to relieve yourself,” she reminded you sternly, softening at your chastened expression.
“Of course. We shall make certain she stays right here,” Caracalla said, sinking to the edge of the bed next to you and taking your hand in his.
“Very good, Augustus,” the midwife murmured, inclining her head. “I will return in the morning to check on the empress.”
“Yes, ma’am,” you replied as she departed, letting out a heavy sigh once the door shut behind her, and sinking back into the plush pillows behind you.
“You heard her, wife! You must stay abed until these children are born,” Caracalla exclaimed, a hint of concern hiding beneath his exuberance.
“Yes, if we must tie you to the bed, we will,” Geta huffed, rounding the bed to sit at your other side, his hand resting protectively over the curve of your stomach.
“I swear I shall behave. That won’t be necessary,” you assured them, pressing a kiss to each twin’s cheek. “Though if that is the case, you shall need to keep me entertained, my loves. Otherwise, it will get terribly dull and I may whither away from boredom,” you sighed dramatically, trying to keep a smile from your face.
“Of course we shall entertain you! Whatever your heart desires, we will provide it, my sweet!” Caracalla insisted, while Geta called for a servant to fetch your favourite orator and a platter of fresh fruits, intent on spoiling you.
“Thank you, both of you,” you murmured, getting comfortable. “What would I do without you?” you murmured, resting your head against Caracalla’s shoulder and your hand atop Geta’s. “Hopefully it won’t be long now.”
✧ chapter warnings: none really, I mean you know what I can add 18+ mdni because even though this lil thingie can be read completely on its own and there's nothing explicit in it there is a slight mention of sex chocolates sooo yeah, OC character, mentions of ex-boyfriend and ex-girlfriend
✧ tags: fem oc x Danny Markowitz, idiots in love, all shades of fluff, valentine's day, third person descriptions
✧ dividers: found on pinterest, edited by me, header made by me
✧ author's notes: Happy Valentine's Day folks! <3 This is my drabble/blurb contribution to the Valentine's Day mini pop-up event made by @fredhechingerfrenzy. I used the prompt "hearts" to inspire this one. It doesn't really fit into the ongoing story, because it takes place in the future, but let's pretend I already got to the part in the main chapters where Cece and Danny are already dating, okay? Okay. Smooches on your foreheads. Feel free to comment if you have any thoughts about my work <3
✧ summary: This is Danny's and Cece's first Velentine's Day together, and Danny wants to surprise his girlfriend with cooking her breakfast in bed... problem is, he has never done this before.
Cece never celebrated Valentine's Day. It's not like she didn't want to, oh no, she adored all the cutesy pink and red stuff, the hearts everywhere and having a day dedicated to adoring her significant other - no, it's just that every single one of her ex-boyfriends hated the idea and claimed it to be a capitalistic nightmare. It was, but that didn't mean Circe wouldn't have loved to be cherished a little bit more than usual for one day of the year. Based on her past experiences, she didn't plan anything for this Valentine's day either, thinking it will be just a normal Saturday.
Danny thought otherwise. For him, Valentine's day was always special, and even though his ex-girlfriend wasn't fond of the idea, he always went an extra mile. This Valentine's day was different though: that extra mile quickly turned into ten extra miles. He wanted to surprise his new girlfriend, wanted to make her feel special so bad that apart from the planned activities, he also decided to make her breakfast in bed, a recipe he never tried before nonetheless: crepes cake! It was a dessert meal, but she mentioned eating it as a kid for breakfast so many times that Danny decided to go with the flow.
Cooking early in the morning wasn't really going according to plan though. Cece woke up to the smell of smoke, making her jump out of bed with a startled look, no remnants of sleep in her eyes. She ran out of the bedroom, only to find Daniel frantically waving a kitchen towel, standing before an open window, trying to get the smoke out as fast as possible. There was a pan on the stove, the remnants of something burnt into ashes darkening the bottom of it.
“What's happening?” Cece asked sheepishly. Danny let out a startled shout, then hid the still hot pan behind his back with an innocent, silly smile.
“NOTHING!!!” oh that came out loud. He cleared his throat as Cece furrowed her brows. “Nothing, baby, go back to bed.”
“Danny…” she didn't even need to finish the sentence, she just needed the right suspicious tone to make Danny break, rolling his eyes, his lips pouting. He put the pan down and looked before himself on the ground, hands fiddling with his hair.
“I messed up! I wanted to make you a heart-shaped crepes cake for breakfast and I burnt it down so bad we'll have to throw the pan out…” he sounded so sorry that Cece couldn't help but let out the softest ‘awwww’. She stepped closer to him, inspecting the pan.
“You forgot to put oil under it, did you?” she asked while caressing his face.
“… you're supposed to?” he asked, then checked his phone for the scribbled down recipe Cece's mum sent him. Yeah no mention of oil whatsoever, and honestly it made him feel better about himself! So he didn't forget, Cece's mum just didn’t mention it and-
“Well let's just grab another pan, I'll try to save this one later, and I can show you how-”
“Nooo!” Danny frowned, taking her hands into his while looking at Circe with huge puppy eyes. “I'm supposed to do this alone! For you! As a surprise! For Valentine's Day!”
Freezing in place would've been an understatement about what Cece felt. Her lips fell open, heart rate sped up, eyes widening, voice becoming shaky.
“For… what?” That's all she could muster before Danny started eagerly explaining with the widest, most adoring grin she has ever seen.
“Yeah! I have the whole day planned out: breakfast in bed, then I'll take you to the aquarium because we both love the fishies, I made reservations for their shark tank sushi restaurant so lunch there, theeen we're going to that traveling carnival you mentioned and we'll go on rides and I'll win you a teddy bear and-”
Cece burst into tears, unable to hold back her emotions. She felt like her heart was about to explode, the warm feeling of being adored washing over her. Danny, of course, misunderstood and started panicking.
“OR NOT, I ALSO BOUGHT SOME SEX CHOCOLATE SO WE CAN STAY HOME AND UNDER THE COVERS ALL DAY IF YOU DON'T WANT TO CELEBRATE, FINE BY ME BABY, DIDN'T WANNA MAKE YOU SAD, PLEASE DON'T CRY.” he held Cece's face into his palms, wiping her tears off with his thumb. She started tapping under her eyes, her smile that Danny loved so much finally returning.
“Noooo I want to celebrate and go out! I just…” she sighed, tilting her face into Danny's palm. “…never had someone who wanted to celebrate it too. So this was kind of overwhelming.”
“In a good way, right?” the blonde man was still unsure of his effect, so just to be safe, he had to ask. Luckily, Circe started chuckling, sounding flustered. Her eyes looked like they had little hearts in them already.
“In the best way, sweetheart.” she answered. Danny let out a relieved sigh and pulled her forehead towards himself, pushing a smooch on top of it. Cece hugged his waist and pulled him into a hug. Danny's arms moved to wrap around her and he buried his face in her hair. Cece was scratching his scalp while peppering kisses over his cheek. “I got you something too, you know. I just thought you wouldn't want to celebrate.” Danny started placing kisses over her neck between each word he said.
“How could I not when I have the most kickass, awesome, loving, smart, adorable girlfriend in the whole wide world?!” Circe started giggling, both from the tickling of his facial hair against her neck and his sweet words. “I'm so lucky.” he said with a dreamy sigh, lips finding Cece's. After sharing a playful kiss, Circe pulled back, looking at Daniel with so much love and appreciation she didn't even know she was capable of.
It looked like Valentine's Day was about to become her favorite holiday.
Thank you to everyone that has participated in our Fourth Fred Hechinger Frenzy Prompt: EMPEROR CARACALLA 🧡
We had fifteen (15) amazing submissions from eight (8) amazing writers! All submissions this month were for the amazing Emperor Caracalla (Gladiator 2) since it was his month!
Below you will find links to all the work that was posted and tagged, we hope you enjoy reading these as much as we did!
Our next event is already underway! We cannot wait to read and see all of your submissions for that!
Smut is quickly indicted by a ☆
✦ Week One: Dondus
✦ Where has that Beast Gone to?
- written by @idkwhatthisiseither | emperor caracalla x fem servant!reader | word count: 900+ | warnings: canon, use of y/n, mentions of executions, mentions of caracalla's mental state/illness, historically inaccurate | you are a servant, preparing to do your nightly duties when you come across caracalla wandering around, without his beloved pet
✦ Double Trouble
- written by @mult1f4nd0m-pl34sur3s | emperor carcalla x gn servant!reader | word count: 1k | warnings: historically innaccurate, threats of injury to animal, threats to execution of animal, slavery (reader is caracalla’s servant) | you live to serve caracalla and by default, dondus
✦ Caracalla's First Love
- written by @punkrockmlchael | emperor carcalla x fem empress!reader | word count: 1.6k | warnings: fluff, arranged marriage, dondus is mentioned, reader has a cute moment with dondus, might not be super historically accurate (oops) | marrying caracalla meant that the union had you, caracalla and dondus
✦ An Outfit For Dondus
- written by @mrprettywhenhecries | emperor carcalla x fem slave!reader | word count: 1.2k | warnings: no use of y/n, reader is a concubine/slave, historical inaccuracies, some suggestive language, but mostly fluff | caracalla enlists your help in choosing an outfit for dondus to wear to the evening's feast
✦ Week Two: Blood *be mindful of the tags when reading!*
✦ Feeling the Lion's Breath on your Neck
- written by @idkwhatthisiseither | emperor caracalla x gn servant!reader | word count: 1k | warnings: 18+ mdni, depictions of violence, blood and gore in detail, caracalla being insensitive to the reader (reader hates gore is forced to watch), caracalla mocking the reader in a way | another day of being a servant, and today you have to do your least favourite job, serve the emperors during the games. you didn't have the guts for it, but caracalla finds a sick humour in it
✦ Within Our Shrine ☆
- written by @sweetpeapod | emperor caracalla x fem empress!reader | word count: 1.5k | warnings: 18+ mdni, afab!reader, no use of pronouns for reader but mentions of female anatomy and periods, no use of y/n, blood, smut: period sex, teasing, sub!caracalla, soft dom!reader, vulnerability | you indulge your emperor in one of his more acquired tastes
✦ The Mad Emperor
- written by @mult1f4nd0m-pl34sur3s | emperor caracalla x gn!reader | word count: 1.4k | warnings: historically inaccurate, blood, description of blood, canon death, canon murder, manic/possessive caracalla | you find out what caracalla has done
✦ Unhaunted
- written by @inseparabiles | emperor caracalla x emperor geta | word count: 1.7k | warnings: blood & injury, death, referenced child abuse, canon divergence, brotherhood | who decides the fate of a brother: a ghost, or the living emperor?
✦ You Taste Divine ☆
- written by @punkrockmlchael | emperor caracalla x fem empress!reader | word count: 1.5k | warnings: 18+ mdni, pre-established relationship, fluff, caracalla is a little freak, might not be super historically accurate (oops - sue me, I'm just a girl), smut: period sex, fingering, oral (fem receiving), unprotected pinv, creampie, breeding kink if you squint | emperor caracalla learns about his empress' monthly gift
✦ A Taste For It ☆
- co-written by @mrprettywhenhecries + @super-unpredictable98 | emperor caracalla x fem slave!reader | word count: 2.3k | warnings: 18+ mdni, no use of y/n, reader is a concubine/slave, historical inaccuracies, mention of an orgy (tho reader doesn't participate), alcohol/drunk caracalla, smut: unprotected pinv sex, period sex, blood, fingering (f!receiving), caracalla has a blood kink, creampie, cum/blood painting/play, breeding kink (if you squint) | when caracalla discovers you're on your menses he's only too eager to help alleviate your pain, while indulging in something he's always wanted to do
✦ Week Three: Corruption *be mindful of the tags when reading!*
✦ Depravo ☆
- written by @ohveda | emperor caracalla | word count: 800+ | warnings: 18+ mdni, blasphemy, implied/referenced child abuse, smut: masturbation, watersports | a man must be alone when he communes with his gods
✦ Under a Trance
- written by @idkwhatthisiseither | emperor caracalla gn servant!reader | word count: 1.1k | warnings: talks of caracalla's insanity, macrinus messing with caracalla's head, reader threatened with death multiple times, talks of murder, reader is injured (small injury) | one peaceful night as you walk the halls of the palace corridors. you were once again at the mercy of caracalla, and a dagger
✦ Week Four: Twins
✦ Two Men and a Baby
- co-written by @super-unpredictable98 + @mrprettywhenhecries | emperor caracalla x fem!oc (ahava magna) | word count: 1.2k | warnings: none | ahava needs some rest, so caracalla and geta watch over baby juno
✦ They Are Mine
- written by @idkwhatthisiseither | emperor caracalla x gn servant!reader | word count: 900+ | warnings: mentions of blood, mentions of caracalla's insanity | there was a change in caracalla's behaviour and everyone could sense it, especially his brother who noticed the change when you became his servant… what was your secret?
✦ Twins
- written by @mrprettywhenhecries | emperor caracalla x fem empress!reader x emperor geta | word count: 1.7k | warnings: no use of y/n, historical inaccuracies, empress!reader, pregnancy | despite your midwife's and the emperors' orders to stay abed and off your feet, you slip away to visit the imperial gardens for some much needed fresh air. when your lovers finally find you, your unborn child manages to divert their displeasure and you make an astonishing discovery
Cowritten with @mrprettywhenhecries for the Caracalla event by @fredhechingerfrenzy
Word count: 1,2k | Pairing: Caracalla x Ahava
Warning: none
A/n: Happy Calla month! This is a little story we came up with for the prompt "twins". Prepare for the fluff avalanche.
[Masterlist]
"My love... why can't you sleep?" Ahava asked, staring deep into Juno's big blue eyes and caressing her thin ginger hair.
The little girl was learning her words, she squished her mother's cheek with her chubby hands.
"No sleep," Juno giggled.
"But Mama has to sleep, Mama has been up all night because this little flower had a belly ache."
“There are my two beautiful girls!” Caracalla exclaimed, stepping into the room, his expression brightening as his eyes fell upon his wife and daughter.
“This little one still has not slept?” He asked, making a silly face at his baby as he stepped up to Ahava’s side, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
"Not sleepy, Dada!" Juno clapped as if that was a great accomplishment.
"See? I am so tired... I need some sleep before I nurse Dondus instead of her without realizing."
Caracalla snickered at the thought before sobering slightly. "My poor wife," he cooed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Why don't you get some rest? I can watch our little one while you sleep," he offered, reaching for the baby.
"Are you sure?" Ahava pretended to consider, but gladly allowed her husband to take her. "You are a hero, thank you, my dear."
"Night night, Mama. I play with Dada now," Juno waved.
"Dream of me, my sweet," Caracalla giggled, stealing another kiss before letting his wife return to bed.
"Dada... grape?" Juno asked hopefully. Ever since her teeth started coming in, she loved grapes to soothe the itch and the pain.
“Yes, let us get you some grapes,” he exclaimed in a hushed voice, careful not to wake his wife as he left the room. “Perhaps we might bother your uncle as well,” he giggled, carrying her to his brother’s quarters, ordering a servant to bring a plate of fresh grapes as well.
"Uncle Dada!" Juno cheered, both arms in the air, each of her arm formed little rolls of fat just like her legs.
"My Juniper flower?" Geta smiled. He had given up on trying to appear stoic when it came to his niece.
"We decided to let Mama get some sleep," Caracalla explained, bringing his daughter closer to her uncle. "My poor wife was so tired," he sighed, glancing over as a servant hurried over with a tray of fresh fruit for the tiny empress.
"Oh... so you are the one watching her? Why did you not summon one of the nurses?" Geta picked up a few grapes to feed his niece, who eagerly took them. "Are you capable of caring for a child on your own?"
“Of course I am capable!” Caracalla huffed, offended by his brother’s words. “Ahava manages her most of the time, why should it be a difficult task?” He asked.
"Because Ahava is infinitely more intelligent and skilled than you are," Geta mocked, taking Juno in his arms.
"Uncle Dada!" She squished his face like she did to her mother, she often called him that since he is her father's twin.
Caracalla pouted. "That is not true!" he huffed. "I am Juno's father! I know how to take care of her," he insisted grumpily.
"I had ache, Dada was sleepy," Juno explained, stuffing grapes in her mouth.
"Oh, I see, you had a stomach ache and your father was asleep while your mother was up all night. That explains a lot," Geta huffed.
"She did not wake me!" Caracalla grumbled. "How is that my fault?" He demanded. "If you had a child, you would understand," he exclaimed, reminding his brother that he had something Geta didn't.
"And if you had a niece, you would understand the unbearable feeling of seeing her in pain-" Geta was going on and on when he smelled something foul. "But then again... she is your child, you should be the one changing her."
"Oh no, she is your niece," Caracalla insisted, holding his hands up, a small grin curving his lips.
"I have never changed a child in my life, I am the emperor of Rome!" Geta growled, which made Juno giggle.
“As am I!” Caracalla countered. “I suppose we should call the nurse,” he reasoned, though he knew Ahava would disapprove.
"Nooooo!" Juno started crying. "I want Dada and Uncle Dadaaaaa! I don't want nurse!"
"Oh, well," Geta grumbled. "How does one change the baby?"
Caracalla gaped at his brother for a moment before comforting his daughter.
"Do not fret, little one, we shall--we shall figure it out. I believe I know how it is done, in theory, if not practice," he mumbled, laying her down atop a nearby table.
"Geta, we shall need fresh clothes to change her into," he instructed, glad to boss his brother around.
"Very well," he, went back to his brother's room and grabbed new clothes, new linen strips and milkweed leaves.
On his way back, he asked a servant for a bowl of warm water and a towel.
“Uncle Geta is very helpful, isn’t he, Juno?” Caracalla exclaimed in a singsong voice, tickling his daughter’s belly as he undressed her.
"Yes!" Juno giggled, wriggling around. "I love Uncle Dada."
"See? That is why I allow you to boss me around like you do your ape, she loves me," Geta grabbed the bowl and towel, adding in a quieter voice. "Probably more than she loves you."
"How dare you! Why would you say such a thing?" Caracalla gasped, hurt swimming in his eyes despite the flare of anger in his voice.
"Who do you love more, Juniper flower? Dada or Uncle Dada?" Geta asked, offering his brother the washcloth.
"Both!" She squished her own cheeks, blowing kisses at them.
Caracalla's lips twisted slightly, annoyed that she didn't say she preferred him, her own father, but at least she didn't like his brother more than him.
"You are such a silly little thing," he teased, undoing her loin cloth and wrinkling his nose at the smell. "Ugh, how can something so cute smell so terrible?" He mumbled, trying not to breathe through his nose as he awkwardly lifted her legs to wipe her with the cloth, trying not to touch anything disgusting.
"It's foul..." Geta nearly gagged, which only made Juno laugh more.
Once she was clean and ready, he wrapped the linen and leaves around her until it was secure.
"There she is!" He handed his brother another little tunic for her to wear.
“Almost done, my love,” Calla murmured, guiding the tunic over Juno’s head and fighting her little arms into the arm holes. “There, do you feel better?” He asked, stroking her soft wisps of red hair.
"Yes!" She nodded, clapping her hands. "When Mama wake up? I want milk."
Geta was about to suggest they fetch a wet nurse, but it was clear Juno did not care for the nurses.
“I am not sure when mama is going to wake, but perhaps we should let her sleep a little longer,” Caracalla said. “Can you wait, little one? Perhaps you would like some more grapes?” He asked, lifting her into his arms.
"Porridge?" Juno gave him a lost puppy look.
"Yes, that we can do," Geta left to find a servant and place the little empress' order.
"Dada..." she whispered, watching her uncle leave. "I love you most."
Caracalla’s expression softened, his heart practically melting at her words and he propped her over his shoulder, embracing her tightly. “I love you most too, little one,” he murmured.
Tag List: @punkrockmlchael @sweetpeapod @mrprettywhenhecries @simonsrealwife
Hello! This is a fic for my good friend @enchantedmoonlight13 @fredhechingerfrenzy
Hope you enjoy!
P.s. this is in caracalla's point of view so reader is always referred to as 'she'
The palace had a way of swallowing the daylight.
Sunlight still found its way through the high windows of the imperial residence, spilling in bright columns across polished marble and porphyry floors, but it never seemed warm. It struck gilded statues and painted frescoes with all the affection of a magistrate reading a sentence. Every corridor echoed. Every doorway framed another waiting face. Every voice seemed measured before it was spoken.
Marcus Aurelius Antoninus had once believed power would make a man larger.
Instead, it had made every room feel smaller.
Another petition lay open before him, its wax seal already broken by a secretary's practiced hands. Grain shortages in one province. A dispute over taxation in another. Two senators insisting they had been insulted by the seating arrangement at the previous night's banquet.
He skimmed the page before handing it back without comment.
"Caesar?" ventured his secretary.
"It can wait."
"The delegation from Alexandria arrives within the hour."
"They can wait."
"The governor of..."
"They," Caracalla interrupted, his voice even despite the fatigue pressing behind his eyes, "can wait."
The room fell silent.
No one questioned him further.
No one ever did.
That, perhaps, was the loneliest part of wearing the purple.
He dismissed the attendants with a flick of his hand. Sandaled footsteps retreated across the marble until the heavy bronze doors swung shut behind them.
At last.
Silence.
Caracalla remained seated for several moments, elbows resting against the carved arms of his chair. His gaze drifted toward the open window overlooking the palace gardens.
From this height he could see cypress trees swaying gently in the breeze. Somewhere below, fountains whispered over smooth stone. Beyond the palace walls, Rome stretched toward the horizon in a sea of tiled rooftops, temples, smoke, and sunlight.
The city belonged to him.
Yet there were mornings he felt it possessed him instead.
A knock sounded.
He closed his eyes.
"Enter."
The captain of the Praetorian Guard stepped inside.
"They're asking for you in the senate."
"Of course they are."
"The matter appears urgent."
Caracalla laughed once.
Short.
Humorless.
"They always believe it urgent."
The captain hesitated.
"My Emperor..."
Caracalla stood.
The movement startled even himself.
"I won't be attending."
"My lord?”
"I said I won't."
"But..."
"No escort."
"My Emperor, that would be..."
"An order."
The captain bowed immediately.
"Yes, Caesar."
Caracalla crossed the chamber toward a narrow side door hidden behind an embroidered curtain. Few servants even remembered it existed. It had once been built as a discreet entrance for members of the imperial household wishing to visit the gardens unnoticed.
Now it served another purpose entirely.
Freedom.
If only for an afternoon.
He traded imperial purple for an ordinary woolen tunic.
The fabric scratched.
Good.
His jeweled rings disappeared into a wooden box.
The golden fibula that fastened his cloak followed.
He tied back his golden curls with a plain leather cord instead of a circlet.
When he caught sight of himself in the polished bronze mirror, the emperor had vanished.
A traveler stared back.
Perhaps a retired legionary.
Perhaps a merchant.
Someone forgettable.
It had been years since anyone had looked at him without expectation.
Years since anyone had spoken his name without attaching a title.
Caracalla.
The word felt strange now.
Almost borrowed.
He slipped through the servants' corridors unnoticed. Kitchen girls hurried past carrying baskets of bread. Stable boys argued over a stubborn mule. Somewhere nearby someone was singing while sweeping the floors.
None of them looked twice at him.
It was… wonderful.
Outside the palace gates, Rome embraced him like a living thing.
The streets churned with motion.
Fishmongers shouted over one another in the markets. Children darted between carts. Bakers carried fresh loaves into crowded storefronts while the scent of warm bread mingled with olive oil, lavender, and the less pleasant odors of a city that held nearly a million souls.
Caracalla walked without destination.
Without guards. Without ceremony.
No one bowed.
A woman bumped into his shoulder while balancing an amphora.
"Watch yourself," she muttered before continuing on.
Caracalla blinked.
Then, to the astonishment of an old fruit seller nearby, he smiled.
He could not remember the last time someone had scolded him.
He bought an apple from the vendor.
The old man accepted the coin with barely a glance.
"No speeches?"
Caracalla asked lightly.
The merchant frowned.
"For buying an apple?
“No."
"Then enjoy your apple."
Marcus laughed quietly.
No speeches indeed.
By midday the city had begun to thin behind him.
Stone buildings gave way to scattered villas surrounded by vineyards and olive groves. The roads grew quieter. Cicadas filled the air with their endless chorus.
The farther he walked, the easier it became to breathe.
Dust clung to his sandals.
His cloak caught burrs from roadside grasses.
A warm breeze stirred the leaves overhead.
He followed no map.
Only instinct.
Perhaps he sought distance.
Perhaps he sought nothing at all.
Hours passed before he noticed the meadow.
It unfolded beside the road like a patchwork of color stitched into the countryside.
Poppies blazed scarlet among tall grasses. White daisies nodded lazily in the wind. Purple blossoms clustered around weathered stones where bees drifted from flower to flower with single-minded purpose.
Marcus slowed.
It was beautiful.
Not because it was grand.
Because no one had arranged it.
No architect had measured these paths.
No gardener had trimmed the edges.
Nature had simply... decided.
A sharp yelp carried across the field.
Marcus turned toward the sound.
Near the center of the meadow, someone had apparently lost a battle with an overfilled wicker basket.
Flowers lay scattered everywhere.
Bundles of herbs tumbled through the grass.
The basket itself had rolled several feet away.
Its owner remained kneeling in the middle of the chaos, one hand pressed dramatically against her forehead.
"...Well," she declared to absolutely no one, "that's embarrassing."
Caracalla found himself smiling before he'd even realized it.
Without thinking, he stepped off the road and into the sea of wildflowers.
The first daisy bent beneath his sandal.
The breeze carried the scent of lavender.
And somewhere ahead, entirely unaware that history itself had just wandered into her meadow, the young woman sighed as another handful of blossoms slipped through her fingers.
Caracalla reached the overturned basket just as its owner managed to rescue a bundle of rosemary, only for three stems of chamomile to escape her grasp and drift lazily back into the grass.
She stared after them with theatrical resignation.
"I think," she announced to the flowers themselves, "I've officially been defeated."
He crouched without a word and retrieved the runaway stems before the breeze could claim them again.
"There."
She looked up.
For the first time, he could properly see her.
Sunlight caught the loose wisps of hair that had escaped whatever practical style she'd attempted that morning. A smear of dirt decorated one cheek, and tiny white petals clung stubbornly to her sleeves. She looked as though she'd walked straight out of the meadow itself, stitched together from earth and sunshine.
Her smile arrived quickly, genuine and entirely unburdened.
"My hero."
Caracalla couldn't remember the last time someone had called him that without irony or obligation.
"You looked like you had matters well in hand."
"I did," she replied gravely. "Then the basket mutinied."
He glanced at the wicker basket.
"It does appear particularly rebellious."
"It waits until I'm carrying entirely too much before making its move."
She accepted the herbs from him, then extended a hand without hesitation.
"My name is Y/N."
Caracalla's eyes flickered to her outstretched hand.
No bow. No hesitation. No searching his face for permission.
Just an introduction.
He took her hand.
"I’m… Marcus."
The lie wasn't complete.
It was simply... incomplete.
"Thank you for rescuing my chamomile, Marcus."
"It seemed deserving of rescue."
"It really was."
Her expression remained wonderfully serious for nearly three seconds before she laughed.
It startled him into laughing too.
The sound felt strange leaving his chest, rusty from lack of use.
Together they began gathering the scattered flowers.
The silence between them never felt uncomfortable.
She worked with practiced hands, separating herbs into neat little bundles.
"Lavender."
She placed one bundle into the basket.
"Rosemary."
Another.
"Yarrow."
Caracalla handed her a cluster of tiny white blossoms.
"What are these?"
She smiled.
"Daucus carota."
"You know every one?"
"My grandmother says every flower has a story."
"And do they?"
"I think people simply stopped listening."
He considered that.
Perhaps she'd say the same of emperors.
Though she didn't know she was speaking to one.
"What brings you out here?" she asked after a while.
"I needed..."
He paused.
What had brought him here?
Escape?
Silence?
A day without petitions?
"...fresh air."
She nodded as though that made perfect sense.
"I come whenever life gets too loud."
"You find flowers quieter than people?"
"Flowers never expect anything from me."
Caracalla lowered his gaze.
No.
They didn't.
The basket was finally full once more.
She stood, brushing grass from her skirts.
"My grandmother will think I got distracted again."
"Did you?"
"Obviously."
She smiled at him.
"But this time I have an excuse."
Caracalla expected that to be the end of it.
Instead, she adjusted the basket onto one hip and asked, almost as an afterthought,
"Are you hungry?"
He blinked.
"...What?"
"I asked if you were hungry."
"I heard you."
"Then?"
He couldn't remember anyone asking him such a simple question.
Not servants.
Not senators.
Meals simply appeared.
No one asked whether he wanted company.
Or whether he'd eaten at all.
"I suppose I am."
"Good."
She nodded decisively.
"I made too much bread."
"You planned that?"
"No."
She grinned.
"I always make too much.”
Her grandmother's cottage sat at the edge of an olive grove, shaded by an enormous fig tree.
It wasn't grand.
It wasn't even particularly remarkable.
Its walls were sun-warmed stone, its roof patched in places with newer terracotta tiles, and herbs hung drying beneath the porch.
Caracalla thought it might be the most peaceful place he'd ever seen.
A tiny gray cat lounged in the doorway.
It regarded him with immense suspicion.
She pointed.
“That's Minerva."
"The cat?"
"The tyrant."
As if understanding she'd been discussed, Minerva stood, stretched dramatically, then wandered away without acknowledging either of them.
"I see what you mean."
"She allows us to live here."
Caracalla smiled.
The cottage smelled of baking bread and thyme.
She disappeared inside for only a moment before returning with a cloth bundle and two clay cups.
"My grandmother's visiting neighbors."
"So we're stealing her lunch?"
"I baked it."
"So you're stealing your own lunch."
"Exactly."
They settled beneath the fig tree.
Bread.
Goat cheese.
Fresh figs.
Honey.
Olives.
Nothing served on silver.
Nothing announced by servants.
It tasted better than half the feasts he'd attended.
Perhaps because no one watched him eat.
"So," She said between bites, "what do you do?"
Caracalla nearly choked on his bread.
"What?"
"For work."
"...It's complicated."
"Those are usually the interesting jobs."
"I manage people."
She laughed.
"No one manages people."
"I've tried."
"And?"
"They rarely cooperate."
"I could've told you that."
He found himself smiling again.
"What about you?"
"I help my grandmother."
"With herbs?"
"And deliveries."
She gestured toward the basket.
"Half these flowers become medicine."
"The other half?"
"Pretty things deserve to exist without purpose."
Caracalla looked toward the meadow.
How many years had it been since he'd allowed himself something without purpose?
Every decision was measured.
Every appearance calculated.
Even smiles carried political weight.
"You look sad."
The words landed so gently they almost escaped him.
"I do?"
"A little."
He stared at his untouched cup.
"I didn't mean to."
"You don't have to mean to."
Silence settled between them.
Not awkward.
Simply patient.
"You know," She said eventually, "my grandmother says some people carry invisible armor."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Armor?"
"The kind that protects you so well it also keeps everyone else out."
Caracalla looked away.
The breeze stirred the leaves overhead.
"I think," she continued softly, "that yours must be very heavy."
His throat tightened.
If she knew.
If she knew who sat beside her.
The armor wasn't invisible.
It was marble halls.
Golden eagles.
Purple robes.
An empire.
"I suppose," he admitted quietly, "it is."
She didn't ask why.
She simply tore another piece of bread and offered him half.
It was such a small gesture.
Yet something inside him eased.
The afternoon drifted onward.
She insisted he accompany her back into the meadow.
"There are still flowers worth picking."
"I thought your basket was full."
"It is."
"So why are we collecting more?"
She looked genuinely puzzled.
"Because they're beautiful."
He couldn't argue with that.
She wandered barefoot through the grass, humming some tune he didn't recognize.
Caracalla followed at a slower pace.
She stopped every few moments to point out something he'd never have noticed.
A butterfly resting beneath a leaf.
A rabbit trail through the tall grass.
Tiny blue flowers growing between stones.
"The world hides lovely things," she said.
"You just have to slow down enough to notice."
He wondered when he'd stopped looking.
Perhaps years ago.
Perhaps the day he became emperor.
She suddenly gasped.
"What?"
"Stand still."
Caracalla froze.
She circled him once.
Twice.
Then reached carefully into his hair.
His heart lurched.
A tiny white daisy emerged between her fingers.
She held it triumphantly.
"You've been wearing this since the meadow."
He stared.
"...I have?"
"I was wondering how long it would take you to notice."
He laughed.
"I suppose not long enough."
She tucked the flower behind her own ear.
"There."
"It suits you better."
"I wasn't asking."
For a fleeting instant, he forgot entirely that beyond the olive groves and rolling fields, Rome waited with its endless demands. Here, he was not the emperor balancing an empire on his shoulders. He was simply Marcus, a man with dust on his sandals, laughter in his chest, and the lingering scent of wildflowers carried on the summer breeze.
Neither of them noticed, far down the road, the faint glint of sunlight catching on polished armor as a small party of riders searched the countryside.
The afternoon stretched toward evening with the languid certainty of summer.
The sun had begun its slow descent, softening the harsh brilliance of midday into liquid gold that spilled across the meadow. Shadows lengthened beneath the olive trees, and the air carried the sweet perfume of crushed grass and blooming lavender.
She had somehow convinced Caracalla that weaving flower crowns was an essential skill.
"It absolutely is," she insisted as she knelt in the grass, nimble fingers threading daisy stems together. "You never know when you'll need one."
"I cannot imagine a circumstance in which that would become necessary."
"That's because you've never had one."
"I fail to see the connection."
She gave him a look that suggested he was missing something terribly obvious.
"Everything is better with a flower crown."
Caracalla glanced down at the mangled collection of stems in his own hands.
"I believe mine has declared independence."
She laughed, leaning over to inspect his work.
"Oh..."
"That bad?"
"I'm trying to decide if it's a crown or a very determined shrub."
He looked at it, then back at her.
"I was never taught."
"Clearly."
She shifted closer until their shoulders nearly brushed.
"Here."
Without asking, she gently took his hands in hers.
"They're too tight," she explained. "Flowers aren't soldiers. If you force them into place, they'll break."
Caracalla watched as she loosened his grip, guiding his fingers with infinite patience.
"You have to leave them room."
The words were about flowers.
He suspected they were about far more than that.
"There," she said after a moment. "Try again."
This time, the stems bent instead of snapping.
"Better."
"Barely."
"It's a beginning."
He smiled.
Perhaps it was.
By the time the crown was finished, it was delightfully uneven.
Several daisies pointed in questionable directions, and one poppy sat proudly where no poppy ought to be.
Caracalla regarded it critically.
"It appears to have survived a small war."
"I think it has character."
"I think it's lopsided."
"So are most people."
Before he could protest, she reached forward and settled the crown atop his golden curls.
"There."
He instinctively reached to remove it.
"Leave it."
"I look ridiculous."
"You look happy."
His hand stilled.
Happy.
The word settled over him like the evening breeze.
How long had it been since anyone had described him that way?
He searched his memory and found... nothing.
Not in years.
Perhaps not since childhood.
She stepped back to admire her handiwork.
"It suits you."
He laughed softly.
"I've worn heavier crowns."
"I imagine you have."
If only she knew.
They wandered without purpose.
She gathered sprigs of thyme while Marcus carried the basket.
They skipped stones across the stream until she declared him unfairly talented after his sixth skip.
He insisted it was luck.
She called him a terrible liar.
A pair of swallows swooped low over the water.
The little gray cat, Minerva, appeared from nowhere, accepted precisely one scratch beneath the chin from Caracalla, then wandered off again as though she'd done him a tremendous favor.
"I think she likes you."
"I thought she tolerated us."
"That's practically affection."
Caracalla chuckled.
The sound came easier now.
Less surprising.
More familiar.
As the sun kissed the horizon, they returned to the crest of the meadow.
Rome shimmered faintly in the distance, its temples catching the last light.
She followed his gaze.
"You've been looking toward the city all day."
"I have?"
"As though something there keeps calling you back."
He was quiet for a long while.
"Perhaps it does."
"Do you have family there?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"A wife?"
"No."
She nodded thoughtfully.
"I don't think she'd like me much."
He blinked.
"What?"
"If you had one."
"Why?"
"Because you've smiled more today than you probably have in months."
Caracalla felt something tighten painfully in his chest.
"You notice too much."
"My grandmother says people are gardens."
"And?"
"If you pay attention, they'll tell you what they need."
He looked out across the wildflowers.
"And what do you think I need?"
She smiled sadly.
"Rest."
The thunder of hooves shattered the quiet.
Caracalla was on his feet before he realized he'd moved.
A dozen riders crested the hill.
Their armor flashed in the fading sunlight.
The crimson crests of the Praetorian Guard were unmistakable.
Her smile faded.
The riders reached them in moments.
Before the horses had fully stopped, the captain dismounted and dropped to one knee.
"My Emperor."
Silence.
The word seemed to echo across the meadow.
She looked from the kneeling captain...
...to the soldiers...
...to Caracalla.
No.
Not Marcus.
The Emperor.
Every odd answer.
Every careful omission.
Every moment he'd paused before speaking.
Understanding washed over her face with heartbreaking clarity.
"You..." she whispered.
Caracalla couldn't meet her eyes.
"I should have told you."
"You said your name was Marcus."
"It is."
"You let me think..."
"I know."
The captain remained kneeling.
"The Senate has been searching for you all day. There are urgent matters requiring your attention."
Of course there were.
There always were.
Caracalla looked at her.
"I'm sorry."
She stared at him for another long moment.
Then, unexpectedly, she sighed.
"So."
He waited.
"That's why you didn't know how to braid flowers."
He blinked.
"What?"
"You've probably had servants dressing you your whole life."
A startled laugh escaped him.
Real.
Bright.
Unrestrained.
The captain looked utterly bewildered.
She folded her arms.
"I spent all afternoon wondering how a grown man could be so spectacularly bad at flower crowns."
Caracalla laughed harder than he had in years.
"So it wasn't because I was hopeless?"
"Oh, you were hopeless."
She stepped closer.
"But now it makes sense."
The laughter faded into something quieter.
Something gentler.
"I never meant to deceive you."
"I know."
"You aren't angry?"
She considered the question.
"I'm disappointed."
His heart sank.
"Not because you're the emperor."
She reached up and carefully straightened one crooked daisy in the flower crown still resting on his head.
"Because I don't know whether anything you told me today belonged to Marcus... or to Caracalla."
He swallowed.
"Everything I told you was true."
Her eyes searched his.
"The happiest part of today?"
"The truest part."
"And your name?"
"Marcus."
She smiled.
Small.
Bittersweet.
"I think I liked meeting Marcus."
"So did I."
For just a heartbeat, the empire disappeared again.
There was no Senate.
No palace.
No waiting petitions.
Only a man and a woman standing in a meadow painted gold by the setting sun.
Then duty returned.
It always did.
Caracalla removed the flower crown from his head.
The daisies were already beginning to wilt.
He turned it over carefully in his hands.
It would never last.
Tomorrow, perhaps the next day, the petals would dry, the stems would become brittle, and it would crumble to dust.
Still...
He folded it with extraordinary care and tucked it inside his cloak, over his heart.
The captain rose, still looking thoroughly confused by the entire exchange.
"My Emperor..."
Caracalla mounted his horse.
He looked down at her one last time.
"I hope," he said quietly, "your grandmother never runs out of flowers."
She smiled through shining eyes.
"I hope," she replied, "you remember to stop and notice them."
He inclined his head.
Not the practiced nod of an emperor acknowledging a subject.
The grateful farewell of a man leaving behind the best day of his life.
Then he turned toward Rome.
Several days later, the Senate met as usual.
Petitions were heard.
Arguments were settled.
Decrees were signed.
Life resumed its relentless rhythm.
Halfway through the proceedings, one elderly senator frowned.
"My Emperor..."
Caracalla looked up.
"There appear to be... flower petals on your robes."
A tiny white daisy petal drifted onto the polished marble floor.
The emperor glanced down.
For the briefest instant, the corners of his mouth lifted.
"Leave them."
No one questioned him.
No one understood.
Only Caracalla knew that beneath the weight of purple silk and a crown of gold, hidden safely within the folds of his cloak, rested another crown.
One woven from wildflowers.
One made by gentle hands.
One that had asked nothing of him except to be himself.
The gold crown belonged to Rome.
But the one made of wildflowers...
That belonged only to Caracalla.
And maybe one day, he’d see the wildflower girl again.
For @fredhechingerfrenzy's Jason Hochberg March Event
Pairing: Mentor!Jason Hochberg x Counselor!Fem!Reader
FHF's Prompt: Cooking [Week 3]
Summary: You can't have Jason being so selfless, especially with his health in question, so you insist on taking over as sole camp cook for the day. However, the quiet morning soon spirals into chaos, leaving Reader overwhelmed and stressed out by dinner time. In the end, all it took was a little confession in the midst of emotional turmoil for it all to sort itself out.
Warnings: canon divergence (no murder plot, etc.). Camp Pineway in full swing. Friends to lovers. Fluff. Mutual Pining (yeah yk it's me). Hurt/Comfort. One-sided idiots in love. Confessions of love. Jason is sweet on you but you are oblivious. Kissing. Bad jokes. Slight mention of minor injuries. Lessons in first aid. Use of feminine nicknames.
Word Count: 7k words
A/N: I know this is a few days late for the prompt, but I genuinely was so inspired after watching 'Hell of A Summer' that I just HAD to write a little something for Jason Hochberg. I put a lot of love into a fic that probably won't be the most loved, but Jason deserves the world imho. Shout out to all my niche character lovers! Lemme know if you enjoyed by leaving a comment or a reblog or both!
The sun's rays just begin to kiss the treeline, dew soaked grass squeaking under your rubber soles as you make your way to the Dining Hall that morning. By now you're used to the early mornings, but what propels you forward was more than the obligation of feeding the campers breakfast. When you enter the kitchen from the side entrance, you see that very thing. Jason Hochberg. Of course, he'd already be here, ever the early riser. Pineway's six-year veteran camp counselor is chipper despite the early morning, humming as he busies himself with setting out the ingredients for the morning menu. He notices you walking up to him as he backs up and out from behind the pantry door, a large flour sack over his shoulder and his kiss the cook apron on full display as he turns towards you with a bright smile. "Oh, hey there sunshine!"
How in the world he manages to get up so early, you'll never know. You attempt to wipe the sleep from your eyes, barely stifling a yawn as you greet him. "Mmmorning Jace!" Jason walks the sack over to the prep table with a noticeable a limp in his step, dropping the sack beside the myriad cartons of eggs and jugs of milk before he asks over his shoulder. "Urgh, How'd you sleep? I uh, hope you're hungry–" Before whispering in secrecy, "–this should fatten up the little runts for the real feast...our feast muahaha" When you don't laugh he quirks a brow at you, but before he can blink, you're already rushing to his side in concern.
"Jason! Why are you limping? Are you okay? What happened?!"
He pauses looking down at the leg he was favoring just now and furrowing his brows before he explains, "Well, looks like I'll be runner up again this year...ankle's pretty beat up after the potato sack race on Wednesd-" You interject incredulously, "Jay that was nearly a week ago; did you get it looked at by the camp nurse?" When he shakes his head you're visibly appalled, instantly gearing up to convince him this is a bad idea. "This is not okay, you need to be resting. It could get inflamed, or worse you could be causing more damage the longer you're putting weight on it. You gotta-" As a seasoned counselor, he knows he shouldn't fight you on this because you're right, but it doesn't stop him from cutting you off anyway. "Aw sunshine you don't gotta worry about me. I have definitely dealt with a sprained ankle before. I really don't want to leave you hanging, the camp is nearing full capacity and it's only been your second year here. What kinda mentor would I be if I didn't support you?"
Your face falls at his words, almost at a loss as to how endlessly selfless this man is being right now, even in the face of a clearly painful sprain. Your eyes glaze over for a second as you look at him in admiration or was it adoration? Or both? You weren't quite sure what to make of these feelings you have been developing for your mentor and friend. You've grown very fond him and of the time you've spent getting to know him these past two summers. Of all the times to become preoccupied with these emotions, your mind chooses now to hash it out?
You'll definitely have the time to unpack this later but for the moment, Jason comes first. Shaking your head, you cross your arms as you begin to pace in front of him, taking a deep breath before firmly stating, "Nope, I won't allow it! With all do respect, my 'mentor' would know that this is setting a bad example for his apprentice to follow if he carries on this way." He gives you a pained expression before his legs carry him over to the lone chair in the corner by the rows of pots and pans lining the back wall. He gestures to his now sitting form and retorts, "Well how bout I just sit here and oversee? I'm no longer putting weight on it, right? Is that acceptable for you, Doc?"
You can't help but smile at the attempt but you sadly shake your head. "That leg needs more than just a few minutes rest. You should be using cold compresses on that ankle–twenty minutes on and two hours off for the rest of the day–preferably while resting in your bunk with it properly elevated! I mean it, Jace. You need to take this seriously, okay?" He smiles at the quick witted, speedy delivery of first aid advice that could only mean one thing; you were extremely worried about him. You always did ramble even on the best of days, but while others found it tiresome, including you, he secretly loved it. The fact that someone wanted to talk to him, let alone ramble at him, was so refreshing that he didn't wanna ruin it by discouraging you.
Once you start though, he knows you won't stop until you are absolutely certain he's okay, so he'll humor you, much like he's done every other time you'd lectured him for carelessly putting himself through hell for someone else's sake. Where he lacked self-preservation, you made up for with practicality and logic, ever the voice of reason. You were the only one who ever truly saw him and chose to stick by him through all his foolishness.
Technically it was his–self-appointed–job to look after you, but it turns out that all this time, it's you who's been looking after him. If he were being completely honest with himself, he didn't want to leave you alone today, or ever, really. He's been smiling through the pain of a sprained ankle for the last few days because he couldn't bear to be away from you. Hell, he's only chipper in the wee hours of the morning because he knows you'll be there at his side; laughing, joking, and fussing over him much like you're doing right now. He can't help but mourn the inevitable loss of your company when you both eventually defect to your respective cabins at the end of the day. As such, an injury like this would get in the way of what little quality time you do have, which makes heeding your words all the more difficult.
Your pacing comes to a halt, hands on your hips and your back leaning against the prep table as you sassily prod him for an answer, "Well?"
Jason's cerulean eyes flash with disappointment before melting back to their usual fondness as he looks at you again; a gentle smile lacking it's usual warmth adorns his face as he admits defeat. "Okay, sunshine. I get it, I've been careless. I'll head on over to the nurse and see if I can't get a few ice packs and plenty of bandages to last the night." You sigh in relief that he didn't fight you on this. You would have took the liberty of fireman carrying his stubborn ass to the nurse if he didn't pipe up just then. You nod at his words as you stroll to the opposite side of the prep table, opening an egg carton and beginning to crack a few eggs into a mixing bowl. That's when Jason decided to chime in again.
"Since I'll be out of commission for the rest of the day, I can have someone else help you out in the kitchen while I'm gone, if you want? How about I send in Chris?"
You grimace at the idea, an obvious no without you having to say anything. So he offers an alternative, "Got it, okay then. Umm, what about Miley?"
You huff at the suggestion, raising your hand before he can continue that train of thought, "Look Jace, I know that I would be taking on a lot today, but I don't think having the resident vegan lecturing me on how wrong it is that we're giving 'baby cow nourishment' and 'chicken abortions' to the youth would be conducive to a healthy working environment for me, in my humble opinion." You raise your egg covered hand to punctuate your statement.
Before he can get a word in edgewise, you prattle on, "And I mean, Christian? Really? All he'll do is drone on and on about Shannon or Bobbie to the point that I won't even be able to hear myself think, let alone serve up grub for the kiddies." When you finally finish your long-winded explanation, you wished you could take back at least half the bitterness and sass.
However, before you could attempt to amend your words, you heard a rich laugh leave Jason's lips followed by the clap of his hand slapping his knee with surprised glee. "Well, there's the fiery spirit I know and love. I suppose, if you think you can handle it, you can man the kitchen on your own for the day-" You let out a breath of relief, your face warming as his first few words sink in, before he raises a finger in the air and elaborates with a slightly more serious tone, "-if you promise to not overwork yourself. So, if it gets too much to handle alone, you let me know okay? Or you can get someone–not Chris or Miley–to come and lend a hand. Deal?" You watch as he offers his hand to shake.
You relent, wiping your egg-laden hands with the nearest dish towel before walking over to him. Reaching out your hand to shake on it, you comment, "You drive a hard bargain, Hochberg. But, yeah it's a deal." You crack a satisfied smile before returning to the prep table, busying yourself with preparing the pancake batter, adding milk and flour into the mixing bowl in front of you. Jason stands up from the chair, hanging up his apron and bidding you goodbye before he shuffles his way out the side door. Before the door slowly swings shut behind him, you hear him whistling the Pineway song, the sound complimenting the birds chirping in the trees around him as his figure slowly disappeared from your view and toward the nurse's station a few cabins down.
Phew, let's just hope you actually can hold down the fort until the end of the day. You've learned so much in the two years you've been a counselor here, but this is the first time you've actually been given the reigns. You steel your resolve, turning to the griddle as you begin ladling batter onto the freshly greased iron. You just have to get through the day and then you can see about getting a helper tomorrow. Claire would be ideal, since you've always worked well together, even under the worst of circumstances. But at this point you'll take Ezra if it means you get some extra hands on deck.
Realistically, you just don't want to disappoint Jason after talking yourself up as much as you did. Not to mention the fact that he's put his faith in you since the very beginning, and continues to do so, which makes you both content and nervous at the same exact time. You can't help but wish he never did that stupid sack race, lest you go prematurely gray worrying over him. The telltale sound of footsteps hitting the front steps of the dining area has you rolling your sleeves up, ready to see this day through.
Breakfast was served without a hitch; pancakes and sausage, along with granola, and fruit were greedily devoured in quick succession. Empty plates were the only compliment you received in return, but it was enough to have you sighing out in relief from your spot at the corner of the dining hall. After polishing off your own plate of breakfast, and cleaning up the kitchen, you made your way out the front exit, ready to knock out some chores around camp to kill time until lunch rolled around. You spent some time rearranging the board games and toys in the rec room, tidying up and lighten the load where you could. Not like anyone else around here was being helpful. Well, unless you could count taking a trip to Make-out Point as being productive.
Most of the campers and counselors were scattered, some taking a dip in the lake, others practicing archery, while most of the younger campers were off on a nature hike led by Claire. You dutifully collected fresh firewood for the bonfire later that evening. You managed to find time to relax for all of five minutes before lunchtime rolled around. Luckily, PB&J's and ham 'n' cheese hoagies were quick work for you. So, it went by just as smooth as breakfast. However, had you known what would transpire in a few short hours, you might have made more of a conscious effort to enlist someone else's help.
You had just set the first hot dog onto the grill when you heard a few campers shuffling into the dining hall. The counter next to you is fully stocked with all the fixings to serve up chili cheese dogs tonight. The low hum of the overhead lights keep you on task as you place a few tofu dogs in for good measure, lest you never hear the end of it from Miley. You faintly heard the sounds of a few kids playing soccer on the lawn out front. if all went well, you hoped that you'd be able to duck out before the bonfire to check on Jason, just to see if he needed anything before you had to oversee the festivities in his absence. You hoped he managed to stay in one place and thought better of attempting to do anything other than rest. Well it won't be long now until you would find out for yourself–
Then you heard the front doors swing open and in runs the kids from outside. Your head pops up at the sound, and apparently just in time to see the blur of a soccer ball coming right for your face. Your eyes widen before you duck under the counter at the last minute, the ball whizzing past you and hitting the prep table behind you before rolling into the pantry. Your heart is racing, your breaths stuttering out from the sudden rush of adrenaline for a few moments before you reach for the edge of the counter, pulling yourself up and dusting off your red apron. You whip around, checking that the coast was clear, until you noticed that half the cafeteria has their eyes on you. When you see slight movement in your peripheral vision, you look down. Three young boys are bickering in front of the counter, their eyes wide and panicked as they argue amongst themselves.
When you clear your throat, they all look at you. And then the blabbering starts up again, but directed at you this time, the children imploring you to believe them on who was the culprit. You sigh shaking your head and turning to the grill to make sure nothing is out of place. When you're sure it's all clear, you nod to yourself. Phew, thank goodness. Your attention is finally drawn back to the kids, who've been stretching over the counter to get your attention, so you speak up.
"Look, I don't care which one of you kicked the ball in here, okay? Just…just no more indoor sports from now on; Got it kiddos? Does this look like a soccer field?"
They're silent until you raise your eyebrows; then they collectively shake their heads. You acknowledge their response with a nod before you leave momentarily to retrieve the ball from the pantry. You hand the offending object to the taller of the three boys and send them on their way with a warning. For the next few minutes, you kept one eye on the hot dogs and the other on your trio of troublemakers. After turning over most of the hot dogs, it seemed as if they have moved on from their previous shenanigans, thankfully.
Just when you get the last batch of hotdogs onto the grill, you head to the pantry to retrieve an extra can of chili, but just as your hand closes around the can, you hear the most horrifying sound; a loud screech of metal and a crackling pop, followed by a crash and some gasps and yelps from the dining area. You jump as well, dropping the can as you rush out from the kitchen and clear the counter to see the source of the unsettling noises. The sight you are met with makes you gasp along with the campers. Glass is strewn across the floor beneath one of the ceiling lamps, it's light bulb shattered and that dreaded soccer ball from earlier is lodged under one of the tables, air hissing out from a tear in the side of it. Upon closer inspection, it seems to be what made contact with the light bulb in the first place.
Under the table nearest to the now broken light are a few girls huddled together and cowering in fear. You help them out from under the table and steer them away from the mess, before you assess the situation some more. Looking to your left, you see two thirds of the trio of boys who had the soccer ball last. Instead of bickering like last time, they stand in the midst of the broken lamp, staring dumbfounded at the ground. When you look over your shoulder, you notice their missing friend sitting on a bench nearby, holding his knee in pain.
That's when all the shock leaves your body, replaced by the determination to act. You painstakingly step over the mess of glass on the floor and close the distance to the injured boy. Genuine care reflects in your voice as you gently ask him to let you see, calmly maintaining eye contact in encouragement. He nods, eyes red-rimmed with unshed tears as he shows you the damage. There's luckily only a few shallow cuts, which will only need antiseptic and some bandages, so you reassure him that he will be perfectly fine. With one hand on his shoulder and the other holding his own, you usher him to his friends. You instruct them to head straight to the nurse, insisting that she'll know what to do.
As they lead the boy away, you turn to the mess before you. With a broken light bulb and glass littering the dining area, you needed to clear everyone out before you could very well clean it up. In the commotion, most of the campers that shuffled in for dinner were standing off the the side, far enough away from the mess to have been completely unscathed, thankfully. However, you needed to clean up the glass sooner rather than later. Before you head to retrieve a broom and dustpan, you turn to the rest of the kids and order, "Alright kids, we're going to move dinner outside tonight. So we're gonna just walk out single file, starting with you Suzie, okay?" The girl in question nods before doing as instructed. Everyone else slowly follows suit until the last camper trickles out, leaving you alone at last. You grab a notepad and pen from the lost and found box sitting on the bench nearest to the entrance, and quickly scribble a note before attaching it to the outside of the door before closing it once more. Well, so much for a simple day, you think. At least dinner isn't completely ruined…
Oh my god! Dinner!
Your head whips toward the kitchen, realizing your mistake many minutes too late. Before you could even move an inch, the smell of smoke hits your nostrils and your heart drops into your stomach. That's when your feet finally snapped into action. Rushing back to the grill, you clumsily turn off the burners, curses leaving your lips in quick succession. You grab a dish towel and swipe at the cloudy smoke above you, trying to get a clear view of the hot dogs in front of you, or what's left of them, but the damage was already done. What was meant to be tonight's dinner, is now a pipe dream; the sad wrinkled weenies were burnt beyond recognition from being left unattended for too long. The situation on your hands would have been funny if it wasn't so damn depressing.
What is wrong with you? How could you let this happen? No, just no. You implore yourself to stay calm and think. There has to be a solution, right? You scrape off the charred remains with a spatula and dump them into the garbage, quickly scrubbing away the rest of the gunk with a sponge as you ponder your next move. You head to the back of the pantry and step in front of the walk-in freezer, making quick work of the latch before you step inside to seek out fresh hot dogs to replace the ones you ruined. You make a beeline for the box of hot dogs on the shelf closest to the door, but when you easily drag the box out, you know you're about to be utterly disappointed. Low and behold, the box is empty. There are no more hot dogs, meaning that your 'minor' setback has now turned into a very big problem.
At this point, you're at a loss as to what can be done. There's nothing else that you can whip up in a moment's notice to save face, nor can you go out there and face the music. Why did you have to walk away from the most crucial part of dinner? Why couldn't you do one simple thing right. Sure, getting caught up in the commotion was necessary, but at the very least could you have turned off the damn burners beforehand? Why did you blatantly ignore the golden rule of the kitchen; Don't leave an active heating element unattended!?
The anthropomorphized hot dog man on the box in your hands becomes blurry, and before you know it, drops of water begin to stain the cardboard. The tears were spilling from your eyes faster than you could stop them. This is all just so messed up. You haven't even cleaned up the glass out in the hall, nor have you even bothered asking for help, effectively breaking the promise you made to Jason this morning. You wished beyond all hope that the ground would open up and swallow you whole. You aimlessly wander out of the walk-in, before settling on leaning against one of the pantry shelves and sniffling in silence.
As smooth as the day was, all it took was one soccer ball, one light bulb and one dumbass like you to effectively ruin it in under half an hour. Even now all you can do is stand here cradling a stupid box in your hand wishing you could just disappear.
Jason was feeling a lot better, thanks to you. He'd have to add that to the list of things to thank you for in his going away speech at the end of another amazing Pineway summer. Since it's close to dinner time, he figured he'd try to sneak a peek into the Dining Hall, just to see how you were doing. Sure, it may seem like he doesn't trust you, but in reality, he's grasping at an excuse to see you. He felt horrible leaving you all alone to deal with the shenanigans that the campers could get up to, and only hopes that you managed to enlist someone else to help you for the day.
He passes in front of the Dining Hall with the intention of peering into one of the windows overlooking the kitchen, but on his way up the steps, he spots a hastily drawn note hung up with a single patch of tape on one of the doors. The note reads, "Dining Hall is temporarily closed. Please make your way to the outdoor pavilion for dinner tonight." Hmm. That's strange, but he doesn't question it, at least not at first. He makes his way towards the picnic tables overlooking the lake as explained in the note.
What he finds there is, well, odd.
All the campers are either seated, pacing back and forth, or worse restlessly blabbing to each other about something or other, but he noticed that all conversations eventually lead to the same topic; 'we're hungry', 'when's dinner', and 'what's going on?' Stranger still, Demi and Mike are nowhere to be found right now, and the only counselor that seems alert and on standby, is Claire. Now that doesn't seem right, considering you were meant to be serving dinner here–unless you really did need to enlist some help–but it's been about forty-five minutes past dinnertime and you're nowhere to be found.
The wheels begin to turn in his head, but his feet are faster, carrying him wordlessly back to the Dining Hall. He slowly cracks the door open only to see, nothing. Not a soul in sight.
He could have sworn he would be right in assuming you were here. He heads further into the building, trudging towards the kitchen, when his shoes brush against something on the ground. The sound of glass cracking under the weight of his foot makes him looks down at the floor, where he very quickly realizes that there really was broken glass everywhere. His mind is swirling with possible scenarios that could have transpired, but the missing piece of the puzzle is still not here; you're not here, or at least he doesn't think you are. He considers the likelihood of you leaving to get help with the clean up, since you did put up a sign, after all.
As he ponders your whereabouts, he investigates the kitchen for any signs of you or anyone else. Reaching the prep table, he hears something; a sound so faint he almost misses it, if not for him freezing in his spot. It sounded like sniffling, and it was coming from the pantry. The door is slightly ajar, letting some of the light within pour out the cracks. He slowly opens the door only to see you, or what he could discern from your hunched over form. Your back is slouched, head hanging low, with your eyes staring at the floor. Your feet are sprawled out in front of you, as if your legs just gave out from under you. You're leaning against one of the shelves, gripping an empty box as you softly sniff, wiping at your face every so often.
"S-Sunshine? What's wrong?" His voice is a shaky, unsure just what he's walked in on, but he'll be damned if he leaves you like this.
Your sniffing stops briefly before starting up again with renewed vigor, pulling your legs up to your chest and turning your body away from him slightly. You respond shortly after with a small, dejected voice that threatens to break his heart in two.
"Please don't look, I'm-I don't want you to see me like this."
He sighs before drawing closer, his shuffled footfalls slow to a stop right next to you and then he's kneeling down to your level, trying to discern from your demeanor why you are trying to hide from him, but settling for the direct approach when he can't get a read on you.
"See you like what exactly? Wh-what's wrong? I'm confused sweetheart, why are you crying in here by yourself? Why is there glass on the floor out there? Did you get hurt? Did somethi-" You turn to face him, momentarily stunning him into silence at your sudden change of heart. Shaking your head at him, you utter out, "No it-it was an accident. A soccer ball knocked the light bulb out." Jace nods, before asking, "So did anyone get hurt, or-?" You sadly nod and explain, "One camper did get minor cuts, but nothing serious, luckily. I had them go to the nurse straight away…" You trail off, pressing your fingers between your eyes in frustration before you resume your recounting of what happened.
Jason listens intently, raising his eyebrows when you start to ramble in anger. "The dining area is wrecked, dinner is ruined, but most importantly, why is there still an empty hot dog crate in here if there are no hot dogs?!" All of a sudden, you raise your hand and toss the aforementioned box across the pantry with an exasperated grunt, the box clanging against the freezer door. You sigh, admitting to yourself aloud for the first time, "I failed Jace. I completely fucked up everything. I let you down. I let John and Cathy down…I'm a f-failure-" Jason's hand rests on your own, attempting to loosen the tight fist you're making, as if he could somehow unravel the chaos of your heart in the process. 'Nooo noo-shhh, don't say that. Come on, honey that's just crazy. One mistake does not mean you're a failure. You're not letting anyone down, especially not me–" You begin to shake your head again, but are quite literally shaken out of it when Jason tightens his hand on yours, imploring you to listen.
"Please, listen to me! You did the best you could dealing with all this by yourself, and I mean that, okay?"
You look into his concerned eyes, nearly getting lost in their shining blue depths before you clear your throat, which had grown hoarse from crying, to respond, "O-okay, yes I-I did my best, but now…Now, I don't know what to do. I froze, and now everyone is outside, hungry and waiting for me but I can't go out there. I'm not cut out for this as it turns out. You are hurt and I couldn't even hold down the fort for fucking twenty four hours before something went wrong!" He tsked at your words, trying to be patient with you, but he won't back down from you and your rambling this time, much to your frustration.
"That's just not true. You got through a majority of the day already, and besides, you don't give yourself enough credit, like at all!" His thumb keeps absentmindedly drawing circles on the back of your hand, the point of contact soothing you to the point of not wanting to dispute his words. You resist the urge to reach out to smooth the wrinkle in his brow that forms while he tries to find the right words to make you understand him.
Finally, he finds them, "I didn't serve breakfast; or lunch. I didn't usher the campers safely away from the broken glass or redirect them to the pavilion. I didn't leave a sign letting everyone know the Dining Hall was closed. And I know for a fact, I didn't come into this pantry to try and find a substitute for dinner. You're the one who did all those things, sweetheart." He looks into your eyes and smiles incredulously as if in awe of you, but you have to be seeing things, surely.
He punctuates his words by giving your hand a light squeeze before he concludes. "And on top of all that, you forced me to get the rest I sorely needed, even when I wanted to be stubborn. Honestly, you're a force of nature when you choose to be! Please don't give all that up now."
You stare at the man that never ceases to amaze you, especially now. He can't honestly be here, holding your hand and telling you to keep going. Your hand twitches from under his, and to your disappointment, he pulls his hand away, as if he only just realized how intimate the gesture was. To cover up the awkwardness that follows, you place your hands on your knees, bracing to stand. Jason gives you as much room as the small space allows so you can rise from your spot on the floor and dust yourself off.
Jason stares at you and you fidget under his attentive gaze. " There's no way you could ever let me down, you know that, right?" He steps closer to you, placing his hand on your shoulder in comfort as he clarifies, "I just wish that you would have just come to me for help like you promised me you would. We even shook on it, remember?" Tears threatened to spill all over again when you realize his words indeed ring true, but you wiped your eyes before they could fall down your cheek.
You sigh in defeat, finally acknowledging what you dreaded the most, "I-I didn't want to make your ankle worse. I honestly thought that I could hold out until the bonfire, but then everything started going haywire but I just couldn't bear it if you were disappointed in me. I-I care about your opinion, so much. It was stupid really, just selfish and ridiculous." Jason sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, his voice softening in bewilderment as he incredulously mutters, "Is that what you think of me? That I would judge you harshly for making a mistake that any one of us could make at any given moment?"
Your eyes widen at the misunderstanding that's unfolding before you're very eyes, but before you can cut in, he's already squinting in what looks like hurt and disbelief as he asks, "You really think that I could be so cruel, or that I'd ri-ridicule you or something?" You shake your head vigorously in response, grabbing his shoulders, your eyes silently begging him to listen, "Jason No! Never! I-I mean that I just… didn't want you to see me differently if I couldn't do it. I-I just didn't wanna make a fool of myself in front of you because I like-"
Your eyes lock onto his for a moment, as if searching for the last bit of courage to push yourself over the edge of the cliff you're perched on at this very moment. You silently gulp, deciding to take that leap.
"I um. I–I like you; a lot, okay? I really, really like you and I just wanted you to notice me so much that I bit off more than I could chew. All of that just for this extremely slim chance that you'd somehow see me as more than just a coworker or friend? I don't know–oh god this is gonna sound corny as hell–but… I'd be miserable here at Pineway if not for you, quite frankly. Spending the last two summers with you have been so so wonderful, and I just wished that I didn't wait so long to tell y-"
Your rambling was cut short yet again. However, the feeling of pillowy soft lips crashing into yours was not what you were expecting, to say the least. Your eyes widen as you feel Jason's hands travel from your shoulders down to your hips, pulling you closer to him as his lips begin to move against yours. The kiss is impassioned yet restrained, allowing you the chance to push him away if you really want to. To his surprise, you follow his lead in earnest, your eyes closing as your hands come up to hold his face. Seconds later, your fingers continue their journey upwards, slipping into his coppery locks and pulling him further into your eager lips. You hum as his hands slide up to make their home on your waist, your shirt riding up under his hands, allowing you to feel his calloused fingers gliding across your bare skin.
You shiver at the sensation, giving his hair a light tug in silent challenge, which makes him let out a light gasp. You can hardly believe your boldness when you take this opportunity to deepen the kiss, your tongue slipping inside his mouth and tentatively nudging his own. He lightly groans into the kiss, which is the only warning you receive before his arms encircle your waist, pulling your body flush against his. His rapidly beating heart drums against your chest, the rhythm is matching the growing passion that pulsed in your ears, leaving you gasping into his mouth this time.
His lips and tongue are consuming your every thought; every sense and nerve ending tuned to him. His roaming hands are driving you crazy, a sigh escapes you when you feel your back colliding with the shelf behind you, making you wince. The sound of boxes and bags falling onto the pantry floor breaks the silence in the small space, but you're both too far gone to notice. You're far more preoccupied with the way Jason's hands are roaming up your shirt, greedy to get at more of your skin. Suddenly, a stray bag topples over from the shelf above you to land straight onto your head, causing you to yelp. You both separate immediately, only to witness a bag of family sized tortilla chips falling to the floor at your feet.
All you can manage to say in your momentary stupor is, "Ow." Jason chuckles lightly as he rubs the top of your head, apologizing bashfully, "Sorry sweetheart, looks like we got carried away."
Your eyes meet, a minute passes in pure silence before you both break down laughing at the turn of events, effectively breaking the tension of what just transpired between you. When your mirth dies down, you chime in, "So I guess it's safe to say, you like me too?" Jason taps his chin, pretending to think about it, before he's pulling you in again, muttering against your lips, "I'm not sure, maybe we should try that again, just to be sure?" You laugh before giving him a shorter kiss. You pull back meeting his eyes as you retort, "How about now?"
Before he can respond you sharply gasp, the fog clearing in your mind and allowing other, more pressing concerns to resurface. You pull away from him to exclaim, "Oh my god, we still have dinner to worry about!" His eyes widen, before they rest on the food strewn around the pantry from your prior activities. You rush around him to begin putting everything back in it's place, rambling as you go about potential ideas. Jason begins to help you but when his eyes land on the tortilla chip bag, the gears in his mind started to turn, picking up the bag and holding it in front of you. You're about to ask what he's doing, but he saves you the trouble, announcing, "Well then, it looks like the answer was right under our noses, well more like fell on our noses, technically. Ha ha." You sniff at his pun, nodding your head for him to continue.
"This bag right here is the key. We are out of weenies, but we do still have chili and cheese. So, if we find ground beef, olives, and some jalapenos, we can make–" The smile gracing your lips grows ever wider as it finally becomes clear what he's getting at. You chime in at the same time to collectively exclaim, "–Ultimate Nachos!" You cheer and hurray at the idea, bewildered that you hadn't thought of that sooner. But, Jason doesn't take all the credit. He insists, "I think it was more of a team effort on this one. You know what I've always said, right? We always made the best team, you and I." You find your face heating up at the sentiment, pulling him in for a hug before you both make preparations for the new dinner plans.
You fall into step with each other, flitting about the kitchen in tandem the way only you can, and before long, you are carrying bowls of nachos out to the pavilion. You are relieved to be greeted with the looks of joy as well as the sounds of cheering and hollering as you make your way to the serving table. Dinner was officially served and everyone dug in with gusto. The other counselors didn't seem to mind the change of plans and didn't ask too many questions, which was even more of a relief. Clearly they had their hands full keeping the campers entertained in our absence to really care about anything else. At the very least, the evening had been salvaged and you could finally unwind.
Much to the campers and counselors' delight, the bonfire started shortly after. John and Cathy were strumming and singing the Pineway song, the fire's glow reflecting off everyone's faces as they started to join in.
You and Jason lounged on a log not far from the bonfire, but still far enough from the festivities to feel like you were in your own little world under the rapidly setting sun. As you rested your head on his shoulder, Jason curled his fingers between your own, sighing in content as he slowly brings your joined hands up to his lips, placing a kiss to the back of your hand before he stares into your eyes with a fondness that makes your stomach flip. You lean in to whisper, "I don't want this summer to end." Jason releases your hand to wrap his arm around you, squeezing your shoulder as he warmly reassures you, "I don't want it to either, but we always have next summer, and the summer after that."
You nod but it's only halfhearted, offering up another idea, "What if we tried to meet up more often than that? Like outside of camp? Would you want to?" You faltered on the last part, feeling suddenly unsure that is even what he wants.
Jason's eyes brighten, smiling just as radiantly as the last rays of light stretching across the horizon. The sight nearly takes your breath away, until he finally answers, "There's nothing I'd rather be doing that spending more time with you. Of course I want to see you outside of camp!" You sigh in relief and give him a bright smile before resuming your previous admiration of the sunset. "Good, I'm glad. But I guess we can figure all that out later. For now, let's just stay like this a while longer." Jason chuckles at your words as he settles into his seat, leaning his body into yours and replying with finality, "Couldn't have said it better myself, Sunshine."
images from Pinterest & Tumblr; divider & banners by me
pairing: college!simon kalivoda x college cheerleader!reader (picture is for aesthetic purposes only. There are no physical descriptors of reader within the fic)
You walk into the Shadyside Grab & Bag looking for last minute party supplies. You leave wondering why the boy behind the register made your heart race more than anyone in Sunnyvale ever has.
fic warnings: mdni 18+ angst, mentions of alcohol, drugs, Timmy’s OD, making out, fluff, cliffhanger
word count: 2.6k
a/n: submission for @fredhechingerfrenzy i’ve had so much fun with this and reading everyone else’s submissions! && thx to @punkrockmlchael for reading beta reading 🫶🏼
Once again, you’re stuck with doing last minute party errands for your roommates, and find yourself at the Shadyside Grab & Bag at a slightly questionable hour in the evening. You would have much preferred your usual market in Sunnyvale, but they close at 8pm sharp. The Grab & Bag, with all of its downfalls, carries liquor and is open until 12am; so here you are. You pull your shirt skirt down a little bit more, a feeble attempt at modesty, and enter the bleak supermarket.
A blast of a/c and unforgiving, flickering, fluorescent lights welcome you as you walk through the automatic doors. You silently curse your roommate for forgetting to pick up ice and lime wedges for tequila shots.
“Welcome,” a distant voice says, and you sort of wave in the general direction of where the noise came from and head straight to produce.
You grab your limes and bag of ice and head to the only check out lane that is open. Perusing the gum and magazine options, you overhear the cashier, a young guy close to your age, try to banter with an old cranky man:
“Back again, Mr. Hartford? Don’t lie, you just come here to see me, right? Can’t resist my smile.”
Mr. Hartford doesn’t reply, simply gives a very straight nod. The cashier continues to scan his pork chops, milk, and vanilla wafers, “Any interesting plans for the weekend?”
“Going fishing,” Mr. Hartford replies, matter of factly.
“Well, don’t stay away too long. I’ll miss you!” he says, handing him the receipt.
Mr. Hartford grunts in response.
“Oh and say hi to Mrs. Hartford for me!” the cashier calls after him.
You’re next, so you set your ice and limes on the counter. “Ice and limes, that can only mean one thing,” the cashier says, looking up at you from the cash register.
You, much like Mr. Hartford, don’t have much time to be charmed.
“Yeah, you caught me, I’m a fiend for tequila shots” you reply awkwardly, and open your wallet to silently signal your eagerness to leave this interaction.
“You’re throwing a party and I’m not invited?” he asks. This time, you notice his nametag - Simon is scrawled across it in all caps.
“Oh well, its just a small thing with roommates,” you start to say. “I don’t think you’d know anyone there,,” you explain, handing him your credit card.
He takes it from you, his fingernails covered in chipped black polish.
“Well, now I know you,” he says, reading your name off your credit card.
Before you can come up with a response, he chuckles slightly. “I’m just messing with you. I’ve worked 2 doubles. After I get off tonight, I’m going straight to bed.”
“Ah,” you reply, politely.
“Unlike Mr. Hartford, don’t tell him I said this.. I do actually hope I’ll see you again,” he says, smiling widely, genuinely at you. Something about the tone of his voice, his side-swept dirty blonde hair, and his crooked grin makes your heart skip a beat. You’re sort of taken by surprise at the interaction, and find yourself thinking about it through the rest of the night.
Even when a few cute and funny guys come up to you, you don’t feel the same way about any of them. When you reject guy #3, your roomie asks you what’s up, but you brush it off, “Just not feeling it tonight.”
When the rest of your roommates go to afters, you stay back, and you think about Simon.
What you don’t know is that Simon can’t stop thinking about you, either.
The next weekend, you’re repping Sunnyvale University as a member of the cheer team, the game being against Shadyside College.
After the game is over, you’re standing out by the charter buses waiting to go back to campus. People are buzzing, talking about where everyone is going out that night.
You can’t help but hear a familiar voice- and turn around.
The mascot of Shadyside, a witch, is taking off his face paint with a towel. Yep, it’s Simon. You hear him chuckling talking to some of the Shaydside cheer team.
You’re not sure what comes over you, but you immediately turn and go over to him.
“Hey, Simon,” you say, tapping him on the shoulder.
His face lights up when he sees you. “Ice and Limes!” he exclaims.
“Yeah, haha,” you say, swaying your poms by your side.
“Oohhh, a Sunnyvale girl,” he says. “You’re gonna get me in trouble!”
You laugh in response. The other cheer girls he was hanging with have walked away by this point. “You gotta come out to Fier’s tonight!” Simon says, holding you excitedly by the shoulders.
“Fier’s?” you ask.
“The bar by our school. They just installed a mechanical bull. Its pretty hot,” he says, jokingly.
“Oh, well, actually I’m supposed to go out in Sunnyvale with my squad,” you say, disappointed.
“Ahhh, I see how it is,” Simon says, feigning disappointment.
You cock your head to the side in question.
“I get it. The Sunnyvale cheerleader is too good for the washed up Shadyside scholarship student…” his voice trails off, as he looks in the distance.
“It’s not that, Simon,” you say. “I just already told my friends I’d go with them, is all.”
“I’m just messing with you again,” he states, in his scratchy voice. “Listen, if you change your mind, which you should, we’re gonna be at Fier’s at like 10, okay? That’s when they start $3 beer pitchers.”
Someone from your squad calls your name. The bus has arrived.
“I gotta go. But, I hope I’ll see you again soon, really, I do.” you say to Simon.
“You know where to find me.”
Back on the bus, your roommate and teammate April asks you, “What were you doing talking to Simon Kalivoda?”
Surprised, you ask, “You know him?”
“Duh. He’s like one of the main plugs, even for us over at the Vale,” April says.
“Don’t say it like everyone would know that, I never buy drugs.”
“Well also, his brother Timmy OD’ed a couple years ago. Its probably because he got into Simon’s supply. It was like, all over the news. I’m surprised you didn't know about it.”
“That's so sad…” you say. You feel an actual pang in your heart.
April shrugs. “Typical Shadyside freaks.”
You scoff. “Come on, April. That’s not nice.”
“It’s true.” she says. “No one from our high school went on to deal drugs, or OD at that rate. Anyways, you don’t wanna get involved with that. He might try to roofie you, or something.”
You look out the window at the trees and houselights passing in a blur. You wonder if April is right. But at the same time, you know Simon’s interaction with you felt so genuine and heartfelt. Not like the stuck up guys in Sunnyvale who were only after one thing. No guy you’d met yet had ever made you feel like he did.
When it comes time to go out with the squad, you fake a headache, and go back into your room. You change out of your Sunnyvale cheer uniform (no use in going to Shadyside side of town with a target right on your chest.) You put on a long sleeve babydoll top, jean shorts, and some converse. Simple, but cute. You decide you won’t have any drinks, just in case.
Right after 10pm, you head into Fier’s and scan the room for Simon. It’s a classic dive bar; the one you’d picture in the movies. Neon signs litter the walls, the lights are dim, and stacks of shot glasses and cocktail glasses are stacked along the narrow tables lining the walls. A few pool tables and dart posters are shoved into the corner. There is a bar in the square middle of the action, a dance floor adjacent to it, with moving, robotic lights that shoot colorful streaks across the walls and floors. It reeks of alcohol, and your feet stick to the floor slightly when you walk.
You make your rounds about the scene, but you still can't find Simon, you even check if he was in line to ride the mechanical bull. Just as you begin to make your second lap, you feel someone grab your hand.
“You came!” Simon looks at you, beaming. And you can’t help but beam back.
“I did! Don’t tell my cheer team that I’m here, please,” you say, subconsciously looking around the room.
“You have my word,” he says, crossing his finger over his heart in an ‘x’.
You look down, noticing he’s still holding your hand.
“Come on, let’s get you a pitcher! You’re just in time,” he says, pulling you towards the bar.
“Actually, no drinks for me tonight,” you say.
“Oh come on! Don’t be a party pooper…” he says.
You suddenly feel anxious. Why is he so insistent that you get a drink? You feel your heart start to beat fast, and your face getting hot. He tugs you towards the bar again.
“I said no,” you say, swiping your hand away from him. He looks genuinely hurt.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says sadly. “It’s totally cool if you don’t want to drink tonight.”
You rub your arm. Maybe it was a mistake coming out tonight. You should have listened to April.
“Hey, what’s going on? Did I like… do something?” Simon asks.
You look around the room, trying to think of an excuse to call a cab and leave.
“Are you… ashamed to be here with me?”
You swallow hard. “Look, Simon, you’re really nice, but I just think we’re too different.”
“Ah, I see.” he says, “I was right. This is because I go to Shadyside. You wouldn’t be caught dead with me,” he starts to turn around.
You start to feel bad. So, you confront him: “I hear you deal drugs. Is that true?”
Simon looks somewhat ashamed. He looks down at his feet. “Look, yes, it’s true. But I do it just to make extra money. I’ve been supporting my family since I was 15 when my dad left,” he explains. “I don’t dip into my supply, if that’s what you’re wondering. I work 2 jobs and also go to college so I can make a better life for myself. I’m dealing with the cards I was dealt. If that’s not good enough for you, then you’re right. We’re too different.” You look into his blue eyes, and you find yourself believing him.
But you have to check all the boxes. “What about… your brother?” you ask.
Simon thinks for a second. “Timmy? What about him?”
“I feel horrible bringing this up, but, my cheermate April said he….. OD’ed.”
Simon hangs his head back, half in humor, half in frustration. “Okay, first of all, Timmy didn’t die, okay?”
Your eyes open wide. “Oh!”
“Well, he did, like technically he did die for like 3 minutes, but they brought him back! And now he’s good as ever,” Simon explains. “And it wasn’t even on my watch or on my own supply. It happened at some bonfire in Shadyside with some kids he’d never met before.”
You take a huge breath. “I’m so relieved to hear that, Simon. Seriously,” you grab his hand again. “I am so sorry for taking April’s word. You’re honestly a great guy. You’re actually the best guy I’ve met, better than any guy I’ve met at Sunnyvale, that’s for sure. I think it’s really admirable how you take care of your whole family. Honestly.”
Simon blushes and looks down at your joined hands.
“Will you accept my apology? Please?”
He pulls you in closer and says, “Hmmm, I guess I’ll forgive you. On one condition.”
You nod and say, “Anything.”
“From now on, be careful the lies you believe about me, okay?”
“I promise,” you cross your heart.
At that moment, you hear the initial, unmistakeable chant of, “Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh,” and you know its Gasolina by Daddy Yankee. You roll your eyes. Half the bar throws their hands up like they’ve been waiting for it all night. The song is loud, sweaty, relentless… made for moving.
Simon grins at you like it’s an inside joke, and suddenly he’s pulling you toward the packed dance floor. You can feel the bass in your chest.
“I should let you know, I’ve been known to cut a rug,” Simon yells over the booming speakers.
He begins copying the dance style of the group of girls next to you; eyes shut, one arm in the air waving about, lips pursed, rocking his jort- clad hips to the beat. He then mimics singing the background vocals, “Dame más gasolina” while pretending to fan himself.
You snort-laugh, and then cover your mouth, “Stop-”
“Come on!” he eggs you on, holding your arm and forcing you to join him in dancing. You roll your eyes again, but end up with a big stupid grin that lasts so long it hurts. Suddenly he yanks you close, and dips you so low you think you’re going to hit the floor.
You shriek-laugh, “Simon!” and grab onto his shoulders.
He’s laughing too hard to pick you up smoothly, but when he does (with your help), you’re pressed against him and you’re both laughing like idiots.
It feels like the world around you fades away.
You tug on the zipper of his red hoodie, pulling him in closer, and bite your lip. You can tell he’s breathing fast - from the dancing, or nerves, you can’t tell- when you ask, “Can I kiss you?”
Without a reply, Simon closes the distance between you and softly kisses you, testing the waters. It feels so good, so right, you can’t help the chills that roll down your spine.
He breaks away from the kiss for a moment, scanning your face to see your reaction. You can’t help but smile again like an idiot, and he starts to kiss you again, this time with more intensity.
You grab the back of his neck to bring him more into the kiss. You start to lick across his lips, asking permission to enter. He grants you access, your tongues brushing softly in between kisses.
It’s heating up rapidly, and he grabs your waist to bring you in closer, though that seems impossible at this point. You push your hips towards his, slightly grinding against his jorts.
“Mmmm,” he moans, the sound vibrating against your mouth.
You break the kiss just enough to whisper, “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.” You swallow, heart hammering. There’s something unspoken, something heavier than lust, something tender and terrifying all at once.
“I think I have a pretty good idea,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheek, as if memorizing the feel of you.
In that moment, you know one thing for certain: nothing will ever feel the same again.
Relationship: Caracalla & Geta
Rating: Mature
Words: 1 766
Warnings: blood & injury, death, referenced child abuse
Tags: canon divergence, brotherhood
Summary:
Who decides the fate of a brother: a ghost, or the living emperor?
A/N: Written to Week 2 prompt (blood) for @fredhechingerfrenzy's Caracalla challenge! Thank you for highlighting this pretty and pretty unhinged boy. <3
Set in that one scene with the knife. You know which one.
AO3 or proceed:
---
There are absolutes, rules and laws which are beyond men, and cannot be broken against. One of those rules: a son cannot strike his father. A son striking his father is akin to man striking god; it is unthinkable, an act so profane that it should be met with death.
Caracalla remembers this, and the firmness of a father’s hand on his wrist. How much that grip hurts, though he’s the one holding the blade. And yet the only thing he sees is his twin brother: his wide eyes, pleading, fearful.
A son cannot strike his father, not even if his father strikes first. Geta would know this. All their lives, Geta was the one who put himself between the violence of the father, and the softness of Caracalla’s body for which the violence was intended, before Geta would direct it upon his own self. Caracalla remembers this also, because Geta has reminded him. And what if one’s father is also a god? His spirit has risen on the back of an eagle to the realms beyond, and his name hung where the moon is, among the stars. Every year on the day of his birth, a bull bleeds. Solemnly, his sons have witnessed it: two years since his passing, the ritual is almost a tradition now. Blood for the god of blood. Caracalla remembers, and Geta must remember, too.
But it isn’t fair. That even now, he comes down from where the gods dwell, and takes Caracalla’s hand to strike at his brother. His claws are sharper now in the form of the blade. Geta has broken against the rules - he has spoken against the will of the emperor - but does he deserve to die for it? The emperor agrees. The other disagrees. No one seems to be asking Geta. That conversation used to be between the two of them; Caracalla holding the blade, and Geta holding him by his hands. Until their father appears again. Hand on Caracalla’s, directing him. Telling him what to do.
An emperor of the past against the emperor of the present. Geta sits there, condemned, awaiting judgement. Caracalla’s hand is to deal the punishment.
But he’s already decided. They’ve concluded. Father has no place there. Father insists but - Geta would always protect his twin. He has been good, until now. He has done some wrongs but enough to justify the sharp edge of the blade to his neck, the grip which grows firmer about Caracalla’s hand? No. He has not earned that punishment.
What happens next is a flurry of pain, and a pressure which builds so very heavy on the inside. A resistance. Unholy in all of its forms, it is agony to endure, to uphold. A limb twists; there is blood, a strike here and a strike there and strike over elsewhere and a knee to the belly where it hits something that feels firm and causes bitter bile to rise into Caracalla’s throat, but he’s had enough. There is no room for ghosts here. Not between him and his brother. He holds the blade now. He holds the power. Not the ghosts, not the gods, not even Geta. And one day? One day, Caracalla’s own spirit will hold on to the eagle, and arise to the throne with the rest of them. He is not lesser. He has never been lesser, and this conversation - this argument - is between him and his brother alone.
For every strike dealt in the past, he deals one now. For every drop of blood spilled, he slashes at skin and sees it flow freely from the wounds. For every hour spent in fear, he’s driving the blade down - down until his hands are so slippery he cuts himself with the strike, and can’t bear the pain of carrying on with the cutting.
And at the end of it - when he’s crouched there, and shaking, and feels like he’s going to be sick, or that he’s going to die of it - Geta is there, too. Holding him by his arms, bleeding onto him, though he is already bloodied, covered, drenched in thick, warm blood. Heavy body to his back and side, supporting him as he continues to tremble.
“It’s over,” Geta’s voice tells him, raw, barely audible through his immobile mouth, “You can stop. Stop, brother. You’ll hurt yourself.”
Caracalla lifts his hand, examines the cut which is leaking blood among the blood that is already there. Geta’s hand shakes when he closes Caracalla’s fist inside his own.
“Worse,” he corrects himself breathlessly.
His breath is a soft huff against Caracalla’s ear and jaw. His lips tender and careful when they press upon his skin there. His forehead heavy and hard when he leans it to Caracalla’s temple. Together, they breathe in the blood. Slippery and all-encompassing: it is on and in and inside Caracalla’s clothes, his knees are slipping in it. His crotch is soaking in it, like he’s sitting in a pool of warm water. Pressed into a body which does not move. Not their father’s body, but a body of someone Caracalla could have mistaken for a father. Geta did, he knows that much. Embraced him, and allowed him to embrace - and Caracalla - he listened to the man, too, and believed his words. That his brother wanted to overthrow him. That was why he - why Geta would always contradict him. That he would now, too; cast blame on him, for all that they’d done wrong, or which was claimed they had.
Slowly, Caracalla turns his eyes to his twin. Geta’s still leaning to him, holding his arm, his hand. Almost collapsed: he, too, is sliding in the blood, his whites and golds turned almost completely red, or completely already, over his legs and up to his hips.
He is beautiful like that. Covered, soiled in that colour. Caracalla’s teals dull into black, and he shivers, and he can’t stop shivering once it starts.
“Shh,” Geta tells him, through lips which still do not move, only allow air to pass through. His hand shifts from the arm and presses into hair, and instinctively, Caracalla leans to it. “It’s over now.”
Hurried steps break the silence of the hall. Guards, with their weapons out; Geta’s hand is raised to stop them, the same hand which still streams his own blood, which now rains upon Caracalla’s shoulder and neck. That cut too Caracalla’s own doing. Before Father intervened, wearing the skin of this stranger in their halls. This newcomer. This snake.
With loose limbs, Caracalla falls off the place he is sitting; a hip turning to a belly, cut and cut and cut like everything else inside the ruined luxury. He falls onto his brother and Geta’s arm curves around him, mouth in his hair only for a warm breath’s length, and then speaking. Caracalla’s eyes grow lax, and he breathes very slowly - and the scene changes before him, though he can hardly recall it later.
---
“You fought like a lion.”
It doesn’t sound like praise. Caracalla shifts in the bed, looks at his twin whose shape is still seated, watching the city through the distant window cracked open to show the glow, and to let in the smoke.
“I don’t remember,” Caracalla tells him, his voice quiet. “I was afraid.”
Geta turns to him; a small smile visits his eyes, though barely at all his mouth. It’s usually the other way around, Caracalla thinks. He’ll smile with his lips but not with this warmth. Then it’s gone, and weariness sets in, and finally - finally - he settles down to rest beside his brother. Caracalla brushes his hand over his twin’s waist, then the length of his arm, and presses close to him. Geta does the same to him, and they become curled into each other like pups. Both have a hand tied with rough linen. Both are weary and scared, but alive.
“You saved my life,” Geta tells him then, and Caracalla tastes it. “I thought you’d come to end it, but here I am still.”
“I killed a god,” Caracalla says to him, his voice small, breathy.
It seems to take Geta aback, so he elaborates: “Every other time, we let our father have what he wants. Not this time. Not tonight. I… I know it was not him, in the flesh. I know that now, but I felt him there, in that hand which held mine, which commanded mine, he was there, and I fought him. If only we’d done it sooner - if - but we could not. Now he does not rule here anymore. I do. I do. This is my realm. And my choice. My decision.”
A silence follows; not tense per se, but thoughtful. Caracalla closes his eyes to it and breathes in the scents of fruit, citrus and herbs, before Geta nods. His mouth once more presses among Caracalla’s hair and kisses him there, softly, but with meaning. It calms Caracalla, though he’s still wounded underneath. They fought for a reason before. That argument has not been resolved. But it should not be so by blade. If their father willed it, then Caracalla does not will it so; he’d rather agree with Geta than the dead god.
“I’m sorry, brother.”
Geta says these words as if he heard what Caracalla thought, and slowly, Caracalla lifts his weary gaze back to him. Again.
And Geta takes distance to him then, to look him in the eye.
“Next time,” he says softly, with intent, “when we disagree, I should remember that the world will stop for us at our command. Because you are right: this is your realm. And mine. We should share it, then, and not fight over it. No matter my reasons, I cannot ever again drive you so far that a stranger's lies might convince you that I should wish you any harm. I should remember that you are not so helpless as I've let myself think you are, nor I so infallible that I might never let a snake to my bosom. Does this please you?”
For a moment, Caracalla remains silent. Then, petulantly, he kicks his feet up high enough to feel his knees digging into his brother’s belly, and nuzzles his face between their bodies in that nice, warm space which smells like safety.
“It pleases me,” he confirms, and a knot loosens around the anger and bitterness still trapped within him.
Once loose, it disperses quickly into calm. Some things are forgotten: that pain, and the fear from before. Others remembered: this is the place they both belong. Side by side. Unhaunted.
