To the stars, through the thorns [Ficathon]
Title: To the stars, through the thorns [1/?]
Author:
loveliesfamous
Word Count: 2952.
Summary: He turned at that and caught sight of such a boy. He felt less like a mess, not because of how terrible he was, but because of (as much as he hated to say it) but because of how ordinary.
It's 377 AD. Time's changing. Pete isn't.
Rating: For now, PG-13.
Disclaimer: I wish.
Author Notes: I was so back-up I'm living in Narnia. And I'm sorry this is so inredibly late but you know that gas explosion you saw on television? Yeah. That was my town. We had no electricity/heating/anything for over a week. So this is rushed (and I apologise) since my original attempt is stuck on my laptop at the minute. Hectic, I tell you. But this is for the Ficathon for the lovely,becomingblurred (my Hemtrick) because, damn it, I was determined she would get a fic. I'm sorry this probably isn't as amazing as you, my dear <3
+Roma, Italia. 344 AD.
[Sursum Corda: Lift up your hearts.]
“This is a place, not of sin, nor of love, but of betrayal.”
He wasn’t eavesdropping, well, not really. His hand gripping tightly at another by his side, ducking around a corner full of shallow breathing.
“But are you sure retribution of the Lord should be left in hands as capable of hell as they are of heaven?”
He bit down on his lip, hard, a sidelong glance and suddenly his companion was doing the same. Backed against a wall, crouched down and paying kisses to the shadows against the stone. It was cold, he thought, not bitterly cold but just cold enough that it was uncomfortable. His hair was a mess of sweat and excitement, and probably a bit of fear. But he wouldn’t show that. Not in anything but words at least and, right now, they were kind of prohibited if they planned on staying hidden.
It wasn’t even dark. That’s how preposterous this all was. There was a trace of bare noon lighting up the tallest of pillars, spreading through the sky and hitting hard against the pavement. Fingers threading between the seconds of freedom, Pete shifted closer to the warm body beside him and sighed gratefully at the head that came to rest on his shoulder. They were still waiting.
“The law must be kept righteous, and fair, above all else.” he heard, and flinched, almost visibly.
“Yet of the man?”
He’d heard stories and he knew Patrick had heard stories, tired eyes and tired hearts. Sometimes, just. Sometimes he was sick of loving. His nails dug into the hand gripping (almost desperately) at his own, and he just wished it was all over. He wriggled their fingers, drawing hearts in the air before making a fist at the reminder of sound. Of silence. Of anything. His mind was imploding, he was sure of it. And he felt pretty desperate to be saved.
They were right outside now. Nearer. His pulse quickened and he could feel Patrick’s too, shaking through their fingertips.
“We’re doing as proposed,” came next. That’s when he saw Patrick shut his eyes.
“ The man has lived long enough.”
“You are but a man, may I remind you! Offences of the Gods should be concerns of the Gods.”
And he knew they both agreed. He felt safe, yet uncertain. He was sure he was his own cliché, yet irony forbid him from realising anything outside of this. Just this. Footsteps thumped against his head, yet when he glanced around the corner, he saw nothing but soldiers.
“Catamites!” and they both stiffened, their backs arching up against the wall, and an uncomfortable glance passing between them as Patrick moved back a little. He wished he hadn’t listened to Pete. He didn’t have to say it, he just knew. He wish he hadn’t listened to Pete, or at least, if he had, he’d followed his own intuition regardless and stayed away from such a walking mess. “Catamites,” they heard again and even their breathing fell silent, “concern not only God, but decency. They’ve forgone their faith.”
(“For truth?”
“For luxury,. Thus the law must be armed with an avenging sword.”
“I understand.” )
+Western Italia, 337 AD.
[Sum quod eris; fui quod es: I am what you will be. I was what you are.]
It was dawn before the borders of the empire were in sight. Not that much was visible. Through the haze of red, blurring the clouds into a makeshift storm, a faint veil of stone pillars weaved between the wind. He was tired. And there was a throbbing set just behind his eyes, working it’s way up into his skull; ready to bury him into a deep sleep as soon as his head hit the ground. His back ached, his shoulders felt tight and he could almost swear that someplace between North of the Border and the Lower East, he completely lost all traces of time. Struggling over cobbles with bare threads of sandals left hanging from his feet, he half wished he had picked something else to fail at. But at least this would let him fade out in glory instead of sound. He found it oddly fitting that the cries of war rose with the sun, in a defeated melody kind of way. His steps settling to a quiet scuffle as he reached the grounds, his eyes blurring buildings with people and everything becoming a potential ink stain, just incase he were to forget this. Not that he was even from far away, or that it mattered, he’d let choice become chance. And he knew this was a longshot. He omitted detail after detail from his life as he trudged silently past pillars the size of giants, from myth, he told himself, but he felt rather belittled all the same. He needed this to work more than anything else in his life. It was, after all, the last chance he really had of being remembered.
+
The night before, he’d slept. He remembered that detail only because it seemed so rare. And since he slept, everything else seemed to fade into dreams (or nightmares) that he could spend all day dissecting to figure himself out. But he had duties now. Or would have, at best, once they gave him a responsibility other than resting himself up to soldier standard. His back still ached, but he could say he felt relatively more at ease than he otherwise would. He still felt like a stranger but he expected that hardship wouldn’t go away. Encased in the safe camp, civil war was a burden. He remembered that much. And that family ties meant as much as silver, with gold in sight. He felt black and white. Which caused him to feel more green than ever. He was glad he wasn’t worthy enough to defend any of this yet, he was sure his mind would be all over too much of it at once. And when that was unsettled, he wasn’t anyone for however long it lasted. Usually he figured it out. But usually was too unstable now. He had to be acceptable.
Sitting around, or standing, in a re-education felt like a blow to his ego. Even if it had all been explained. But his thoughts wandered too much for him to catch up. And the teacher spoke too fast. His accent blurred into time slots of maybe and not sure. (He wasn’t sure of most of it, for what he knew). They were taught, obligingly, not how to be men but how to be soldiers. And civilians, of course, all in one package. He couldn’t help but to think, however, all through the speeches, that all he really wanted to be was human. Yet it seemed amongst battle there was no place for it. He bent his legs a little at the knees and arched his back silently before settling to crouch against a boulder. His muscles still ached. As did his ears, of now.
“War is not to be learned, soldiers,“ spoke a man, “nor is it to be taught,” old, he thought, not only for his age but for his time. He thought him to be a little odd, if nothing else. His hand gestures both flamboyant yet masculine, as he drilled them for all he could get. He was like a thunderstorm, without the lightning, he wasn’t just flashes of intensity like Pete felt. He was just. He was just. There. And you couldn’t look away, or tune him out, or disagree. He was just there. He hadn’t caught his name, but it couldn’t be important, and it would do nothing but make him less of a man, he thought. Make him seem less viable and more ordinary. “It is to be accompanied by power, not knowledge. Your mind shall be belittled to make way for the brave. Forget your kingdom, soldiers, forget your families. To fight is to die a righteous death. To walk away is to be branded the fool.”
It wasn’t really that Pete was hanging on to his every word. Not really. Just he hadn’t met a more impossible person before, other than himself. The words were blurs, but the sound melted into symphonies. And he could feel war raging in his veins. It had to be the voice, he thought, the words were only chances, it had to be the voice that got the men so set for destruction. Either of themselves, or of enemies. Sometimes of both. It wasn’t love, rather the opposite to be fair, he was so in hate with the sound itself that he decided there and then he wanted it present when it was time for his very last breath. As eloquent or not as it happened. He wanted it there, in nonsense, in argument, he didn’t really care so long as it let him go out with a bang, hating something other than himself as he faded out for the final time.
He thought about speaking to him, in private perhaps, afterwards. But discarded the idea at the possibility of him liking the man. He wouldn’t be able to kill for like. And he knew it. Resting his chin on his hands, having slouched down to a full sitting position on the ground, he listened, instead, with intent. Before the sharp pitch of a verb caught his straightened back. And smiled.
+
He found the days of beginning to be a blur, a smokescreen of instances of which none were particularly linked other than in his head. Four days ago he was normal, or as normal as he could appear to get without boundaries getting in the way. Now he was brave. Again, as close as lies could lead without giving him the upper hand. He had everything figured out but himself, he thought. Unrelenting, and tough. But it was sure to be worth it when he died with honour instead of pity. Four days, he thought, it had been longer than four days since he was graced with bathing. It didn’t bother him at first, but as he felt the smooth ripples of shade tugging around his skin, he realised how much he had missed it. It felt, in that moment, like a sanctuary. An empty hollow filled with nothing but himself and nature. He didn’t understand why it appeared so empty right then, he was used to life, and combustion, and worry. Shared between shoulders and secret eyes. It wasn’t the same when you told your worries to yourself, leaving you only with more.
He arched his back a little and shifted so he could lean his head back against the side wall, arms stretched and so unlike dignity he felt he should be embarrassed if he wasn’t alone. His mind was heavy and he felt as if this was the only place he could lighten the load, free roaming through thoughts, following trails of ideas and watching the stars dancing across his eyelids (hiding between veins and pulses). He kicked his feet through the water briefly, joyously, and shook his head. He didn’t get this at all.
Men came and went, he supposed, watching their shadows dancing across the wall as they too expected it to be empty. He would glance up and smile but to nothing but a nod back and a wave before they departed to another area. Or to bathe more privately. He swallowed words like alone. He was used to it. There was one boy though, he can recall, one boy who didn’t so much stay as he left. He entered when Pete was stretching for what seemed like too long. He could sit there for days he told himself at the start, not realising how true to his word it may be. The shuffle of sandaled feet against the damp ground made him smile, as did the gentle gasp. He turned at that and caught sight of such a boy. He felt less like a mess, not because of how terrible he was, but because of (as much as he hated to say it) but because of how ordinary. Pete had to admit he quite liked it.
“Were you not expectant of company?” he said, as he twisted his body back around to face the wall. For all of the visitors he felt obliged only to speak to this one. Although odd greetings that had not been returned had put him off back when he cared.
He was approached, he thought, he was sure he was approached. But nervous shuffling made him think otherwise. He dropped an arm to run his fingers through the water, glancing down before turning his head once more to address the boy, “I did say, were you not expectant of company?” he noticed how the visitor had his robe, folded as it may be, pressed tightly against the expanse of white covering his torso. His nails digging into his sides as he tried desperately to hide in himself, feet tangled with feet and an odd sort of startled on his face.
“I…I…..” he started, and Pete stalled, looking up expectantly yet trying to look kind. He tried to speak again so it appeared, but instead bit down on his bottom lip before glancing from Pete to himself and tugging the robe tighter against him. He blushed. Pete was sure he blushed. Before his knuckles turned white, “Could you…excuse me but a moment please?” and he bit his lip again. Harder. Pete could do nothing but oblige. Watching his reflection in the water.
The boy dressed. Quickly. Pulling the robe over his head and slipping off his sandals. He knew he needed to bathe too badly to pass this over until morning. Or even until evening when nobody else was there. It seemed odd. He seemed odd. And he was unsure. He was beyond unsure but he stood there, not quite leaning against the side of the wall, with heated cheeks and an awkward smile, “You…I oblige you to return to your actions if you do so please.” He wanted to leave. He knew he wanted to leave. Maybe he could just find a more secluded spot. With a shy gush he picked up his sandals and started to move, planning on doing just that.
“Wait!” Pete cried out, not even fully aware that he had said anything, or even why, maybe the loneliness was getting to him more than he thought, “I mean.,“ he said, and he was stumbling over his words like a common fool, he laughed almost, before shaking his head and glancing up. “I mean,” he repeated, “If you do so wish to bathe I shall depart if my presence leads to discomfort.”
He was expecting not to be dismissed. He was expecting the boy to change his mind and simply sit in the temperate water with him. Even in silence, just so it felt more busy than his thoughts, and less crowded than home. It was obvious Pete expected him to let him stay. He even nudged along to make more room, confining himself to a corner, just incase.
And he stumbled too. He was silent. And then he was speaking. But the words just wouldn’t fall like he wanted, and he couldn’t stop glancing down at his reflection weaving through the waves. Distaste. He felt distaste. And frowned. “I…would be appreciative of such generosity.” he replied at last, and, although disappointed, Pete simply nodded and stretched his arms against the side to lift himself out of the water.
He lingered. He knew he lingered. Half hoping for the same cry of “wait!” as he gave earlier. But when he knew it wasn’t coming he let a resigned sigh speak for him as he moved across the wet ground with caution, reaching for his robe. And he knew then, he just knew, that there was loneliness in company as well. He missed dirty water and clean mouths.
“You may return to your bathing now.” And Pete had to say he was more than surprised when the boy spoke such words. His mind trying to catch it out for anything but instead of falling into someone else’s trickery, it seemed he had fallen into his own. As usual.
“Pardon?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder to grasp sight of the water smoothing down a thin veil of material over an immersed body. Sitting in the pool, fully dressed, was the one he wanted to call friend. Or at least companion. Momentarily. He didn’t know if it was more ridiculous or clever. He went, instead, with half expected. If he knew the soldier, himself.
A nervous smile greeted him as hands steadied and there he was biting on that lip again, once more, for security it seemed, “If you do so wish, of course. My intention was not to assume, pardon me please.”
And Pete laughed. He didn’t know why he laughed. But seeing such a misunderstanding sitting directly in front of him, waiting to freeze from wet clothes that very night, he could do no other. He shook his head, his hair damp and sending small rivulets of his afternoon everywhere. And he laughed. And laughed. “I’m Peter.” He thought about shedding his robe again, before glancing back at the water for possibly the third time before pausing and grinning to himself. He shared, what in his mind, was a secret look with the boy before climbing back in. Robe and all.
“And I’m Patrick” he smiled. The corners of his eyes tilting upwards as they met one another’s gaze. Maybe not so secret after all, he thought. And maybe not so bad.
+
It might not seem it yet, but the dates are important..
I used the prompt of "Roman Empire" even though this is based more around the collapse. It'll make sense soon, I hope.
Author:
loveliesfamousWord Count: 2952.
Summary: He turned at that and caught sight of such a boy. He felt less like a mess, not because of how terrible he was, but because of (as much as he hated to say it) but because of how ordinary.
It's 377 AD. Time's changing. Pete isn't.
Rating: For now, PG-13.
Disclaimer: I wish.
Author Notes: I was so back-up I'm living in Narnia. And I'm sorry this is so inredibly late but you know that gas explosion you saw on television? Yeah. That was my town. We had no electricity/heating/anything for over a week. So this is rushed (and I apologise) since my original attempt is stuck on my laptop at the minute. Hectic, I tell you. But this is for the Ficathon for the lovely,
becomingblurred (my Hemtrick) because, damn it, I was determined she would get a fic. I'm sorry this probably isn't as amazing as you, my dear <3 +Roma, Italia. 344 AD.
[Sursum Corda: Lift up your hearts.]
“This is a place, not of sin, nor of love, but of betrayal.”
He wasn’t eavesdropping, well, not really. His hand gripping tightly at another by his side, ducking around a corner full of shallow breathing.
“But are you sure retribution of the Lord should be left in hands as capable of hell as they are of heaven?”
He bit down on his lip, hard, a sidelong glance and suddenly his companion was doing the same. Backed against a wall, crouched down and paying kisses to the shadows against the stone. It was cold, he thought, not bitterly cold but just cold enough that it was uncomfortable. His hair was a mess of sweat and excitement, and probably a bit of fear. But he wouldn’t show that. Not in anything but words at least and, right now, they were kind of prohibited if they planned on staying hidden.
It wasn’t even dark. That’s how preposterous this all was. There was a trace of bare noon lighting up the tallest of pillars, spreading through the sky and hitting hard against the pavement. Fingers threading between the seconds of freedom, Pete shifted closer to the warm body beside him and sighed gratefully at the head that came to rest on his shoulder. They were still waiting.
“The law must be kept righteous, and fair, above all else.” he heard, and flinched, almost visibly.
“Yet of the man?”
He’d heard stories and he knew Patrick had heard stories, tired eyes and tired hearts. Sometimes, just. Sometimes he was sick of loving. His nails dug into the hand gripping (almost desperately) at his own, and he just wished it was all over. He wriggled their fingers, drawing hearts in the air before making a fist at the reminder of sound. Of silence. Of anything. His mind was imploding, he was sure of it. And he felt pretty desperate to be saved.
They were right outside now. Nearer. His pulse quickened and he could feel Patrick’s too, shaking through their fingertips.
“We’re doing as proposed,” came next. That’s when he saw Patrick shut his eyes.
“ The man has lived long enough.”
“You are but a man, may I remind you! Offences of the Gods should be concerns of the Gods.”
And he knew they both agreed. He felt safe, yet uncertain. He was sure he was his own cliché, yet irony forbid him from realising anything outside of this. Just this. Footsteps thumped against his head, yet when he glanced around the corner, he saw nothing but soldiers.
“Catamites!” and they both stiffened, their backs arching up against the wall, and an uncomfortable glance passing between them as Patrick moved back a little. He wished he hadn’t listened to Pete. He didn’t have to say it, he just knew. He wish he hadn’t listened to Pete, or at least, if he had, he’d followed his own intuition regardless and stayed away from such a walking mess. “Catamites,” they heard again and even their breathing fell silent, “concern not only God, but decency. They’ve forgone their faith.”
(“For truth?”
“For luxury,. Thus the law must be armed with an avenging sword.”
“I understand.” )
+Western Italia, 337 AD.
[Sum quod eris; fui quod es: I am what you will be. I was what you are.]
It was dawn before the borders of the empire were in sight. Not that much was visible. Through the haze of red, blurring the clouds into a makeshift storm, a faint veil of stone pillars weaved between the wind. He was tired. And there was a throbbing set just behind his eyes, working it’s way up into his skull; ready to bury him into a deep sleep as soon as his head hit the ground. His back ached, his shoulders felt tight and he could almost swear that someplace between North of the Border and the Lower East, he completely lost all traces of time. Struggling over cobbles with bare threads of sandals left hanging from his feet, he half wished he had picked something else to fail at. But at least this would let him fade out in glory instead of sound. He found it oddly fitting that the cries of war rose with the sun, in a defeated melody kind of way. His steps settling to a quiet scuffle as he reached the grounds, his eyes blurring buildings with people and everything becoming a potential ink stain, just incase he were to forget this. Not that he was even from far away, or that it mattered, he’d let choice become chance. And he knew this was a longshot. He omitted detail after detail from his life as he trudged silently past pillars the size of giants, from myth, he told himself, but he felt rather belittled all the same. He needed this to work more than anything else in his life. It was, after all, the last chance he really had of being remembered.
+
The night before, he’d slept. He remembered that detail only because it seemed so rare. And since he slept, everything else seemed to fade into dreams (or nightmares) that he could spend all day dissecting to figure himself out. But he had duties now. Or would have, at best, once they gave him a responsibility other than resting himself up to soldier standard. His back still ached, but he could say he felt relatively more at ease than he otherwise would. He still felt like a stranger but he expected that hardship wouldn’t go away. Encased in the safe camp, civil war was a burden. He remembered that much. And that family ties meant as much as silver, with gold in sight. He felt black and white. Which caused him to feel more green than ever. He was glad he wasn’t worthy enough to defend any of this yet, he was sure his mind would be all over too much of it at once. And when that was unsettled, he wasn’t anyone for however long it lasted. Usually he figured it out. But usually was too unstable now. He had to be acceptable.
Sitting around, or standing, in a re-education felt like a blow to his ego. Even if it had all been explained. But his thoughts wandered too much for him to catch up. And the teacher spoke too fast. His accent blurred into time slots of maybe and not sure. (He wasn’t sure of most of it, for what he knew). They were taught, obligingly, not how to be men but how to be soldiers. And civilians, of course, all in one package. He couldn’t help but to think, however, all through the speeches, that all he really wanted to be was human. Yet it seemed amongst battle there was no place for it. He bent his legs a little at the knees and arched his back silently before settling to crouch against a boulder. His muscles still ached. As did his ears, of now.
“War is not to be learned, soldiers,“ spoke a man, “nor is it to be taught,” old, he thought, not only for his age but for his time. He thought him to be a little odd, if nothing else. His hand gestures both flamboyant yet masculine, as he drilled them for all he could get. He was like a thunderstorm, without the lightning, he wasn’t just flashes of intensity like Pete felt. He was just. He was just. There. And you couldn’t look away, or tune him out, or disagree. He was just there. He hadn’t caught his name, but it couldn’t be important, and it would do nothing but make him less of a man, he thought. Make him seem less viable and more ordinary. “It is to be accompanied by power, not knowledge. Your mind shall be belittled to make way for the brave. Forget your kingdom, soldiers, forget your families. To fight is to die a righteous death. To walk away is to be branded the fool.”
It wasn’t really that Pete was hanging on to his every word. Not really. Just he hadn’t met a more impossible person before, other than himself. The words were blurs, but the sound melted into symphonies. And he could feel war raging in his veins. It had to be the voice, he thought, the words were only chances, it had to be the voice that got the men so set for destruction. Either of themselves, or of enemies. Sometimes of both. It wasn’t love, rather the opposite to be fair, he was so in hate with the sound itself that he decided there and then he wanted it present when it was time for his very last breath. As eloquent or not as it happened. He wanted it there, in nonsense, in argument, he didn’t really care so long as it let him go out with a bang, hating something other than himself as he faded out for the final time.
He thought about speaking to him, in private perhaps, afterwards. But discarded the idea at the possibility of him liking the man. He wouldn’t be able to kill for like. And he knew it. Resting his chin on his hands, having slouched down to a full sitting position on the ground, he listened, instead, with intent. Before the sharp pitch of a verb caught his straightened back. And smiled.
+
He found the days of beginning to be a blur, a smokescreen of instances of which none were particularly linked other than in his head. Four days ago he was normal, or as normal as he could appear to get without boundaries getting in the way. Now he was brave. Again, as close as lies could lead without giving him the upper hand. He had everything figured out but himself, he thought. Unrelenting, and tough. But it was sure to be worth it when he died with honour instead of pity. Four days, he thought, it had been longer than four days since he was graced with bathing. It didn’t bother him at first, but as he felt the smooth ripples of shade tugging around his skin, he realised how much he had missed it. It felt, in that moment, like a sanctuary. An empty hollow filled with nothing but himself and nature. He didn’t understand why it appeared so empty right then, he was used to life, and combustion, and worry. Shared between shoulders and secret eyes. It wasn’t the same when you told your worries to yourself, leaving you only with more.
He arched his back a little and shifted so he could lean his head back against the side wall, arms stretched and so unlike dignity he felt he should be embarrassed if he wasn’t alone. His mind was heavy and he felt as if this was the only place he could lighten the load, free roaming through thoughts, following trails of ideas and watching the stars dancing across his eyelids (hiding between veins and pulses). He kicked his feet through the water briefly, joyously, and shook his head. He didn’t get this at all.
Men came and went, he supposed, watching their shadows dancing across the wall as they too expected it to be empty. He would glance up and smile but to nothing but a nod back and a wave before they departed to another area. Or to bathe more privately. He swallowed words like alone. He was used to it. There was one boy though, he can recall, one boy who didn’t so much stay as he left. He entered when Pete was stretching for what seemed like too long. He could sit there for days he told himself at the start, not realising how true to his word it may be. The shuffle of sandaled feet against the damp ground made him smile, as did the gentle gasp. He turned at that and caught sight of such a boy. He felt less like a mess, not because of how terrible he was, but because of (as much as he hated to say it) but because of how ordinary. Pete had to admit he quite liked it.
“Were you not expectant of company?” he said, as he twisted his body back around to face the wall. For all of the visitors he felt obliged only to speak to this one. Although odd greetings that had not been returned had put him off back when he cared.
He was approached, he thought, he was sure he was approached. But nervous shuffling made him think otherwise. He dropped an arm to run his fingers through the water, glancing down before turning his head once more to address the boy, “I did say, were you not expectant of company?” he noticed how the visitor had his robe, folded as it may be, pressed tightly against the expanse of white covering his torso. His nails digging into his sides as he tried desperately to hide in himself, feet tangled with feet and an odd sort of startled on his face.
“I…I…..” he started, and Pete stalled, looking up expectantly yet trying to look kind. He tried to speak again so it appeared, but instead bit down on his bottom lip before glancing from Pete to himself and tugging the robe tighter against him. He blushed. Pete was sure he blushed. Before his knuckles turned white, “Could you…excuse me but a moment please?” and he bit his lip again. Harder. Pete could do nothing but oblige. Watching his reflection in the water.
The boy dressed. Quickly. Pulling the robe over his head and slipping off his sandals. He knew he needed to bathe too badly to pass this over until morning. Or even until evening when nobody else was there. It seemed odd. He seemed odd. And he was unsure. He was beyond unsure but he stood there, not quite leaning against the side of the wall, with heated cheeks and an awkward smile, “You…I oblige you to return to your actions if you do so please.” He wanted to leave. He knew he wanted to leave. Maybe he could just find a more secluded spot. With a shy gush he picked up his sandals and started to move, planning on doing just that.
“Wait!” Pete cried out, not even fully aware that he had said anything, or even why, maybe the loneliness was getting to him more than he thought, “I mean.,“ he said, and he was stumbling over his words like a common fool, he laughed almost, before shaking his head and glancing up. “I mean,” he repeated, “If you do so wish to bathe I shall depart if my presence leads to discomfort.”
He was expecting not to be dismissed. He was expecting the boy to change his mind and simply sit in the temperate water with him. Even in silence, just so it felt more busy than his thoughts, and less crowded than home. It was obvious Pete expected him to let him stay. He even nudged along to make more room, confining himself to a corner, just incase.
And he stumbled too. He was silent. And then he was speaking. But the words just wouldn’t fall like he wanted, and he couldn’t stop glancing down at his reflection weaving through the waves. Distaste. He felt distaste. And frowned. “I…would be appreciative of such generosity.” he replied at last, and, although disappointed, Pete simply nodded and stretched his arms against the side to lift himself out of the water.
He lingered. He knew he lingered. Half hoping for the same cry of “wait!” as he gave earlier. But when he knew it wasn’t coming he let a resigned sigh speak for him as he moved across the wet ground with caution, reaching for his robe. And he knew then, he just knew, that there was loneliness in company as well. He missed dirty water and clean mouths.
“You may return to your bathing now.” And Pete had to say he was more than surprised when the boy spoke such words. His mind trying to catch it out for anything but instead of falling into someone else’s trickery, it seemed he had fallen into his own. As usual.
“Pardon?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder to grasp sight of the water smoothing down a thin veil of material over an immersed body. Sitting in the pool, fully dressed, was the one he wanted to call friend. Or at least companion. Momentarily. He didn’t know if it was more ridiculous or clever. He went, instead, with half expected. If he knew the soldier, himself.
A nervous smile greeted him as hands steadied and there he was biting on that lip again, once more, for security it seemed, “If you do so wish, of course. My intention was not to assume, pardon me please.”
And Pete laughed. He didn’t know why he laughed. But seeing such a misunderstanding sitting directly in front of him, waiting to freeze from wet clothes that very night, he could do no other. He shook his head, his hair damp and sending small rivulets of his afternoon everywhere. And he laughed. And laughed. “I’m Peter.” He thought about shedding his robe again, before glancing back at the water for possibly the third time before pausing and grinning to himself. He shared, what in his mind, was a secret look with the boy before climbing back in. Robe and all.
“And I’m Patrick” he smiled. The corners of his eyes tilting upwards as they met one another’s gaze. Maybe not so secret after all, he thought. And maybe not so bad.
+
I used the prompt of "Roman Empire" even though this is based more around the collapse. It'll make sense soon, I hope.