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James surveyed the room with a quick glance, mouth quirking slightly at the way the other gladiators unconsciously split – as though to move away from him and the danger he presented. His eyes, he was once told, were as cold as winter and held the promise of violence. With a quiet scoff, he seated himself next to the five men that didn't care to give him a wide-berth. They gave one another a nod, and waited for the banquet to commence.
It wouldn't be grand, like James imagined a banquet among the nobles would be, but it was a banquet nonetheless. Soon the masses would join, looking upon and joining the gladiators in what might be their last meal before tomorrow's munus and gladiatorial battles in the afternoon. He doesn't worry too much about that, however. The lanista, Lukin, had come in the morning to tell him he would be one of the first in the arena the next day.
He would be lying if he said his blood didn't rush at the thought, but it wasn't nerves at all. A fight meant more money, and more money meant he would be free sooner.
He closed his eyes.
Freedom.
It has been almost a year since he was put in this life - compensation for the crime of striking a young noble. It mattered not that it had been in the defense of someone else. The only reason he hadn't been charged with death was that his father had been a great soldier and Lukin saw great opportunity for a gladiator in him.
He opens his eyes and begins to eat his fill of boiled beans and oatmeal and dried fruit while foregoing the ash (he doesn't like the taste and he doesn't particularly care if it is said to fortify the body). He then finds that they're providing some meat as well, and although it isn't much, he thanks the gods for it, for he knows it will be a long while before he is able to have it again.
As he eats he finds himself wondering if it was worth it - standing up for a complete stranger, only to be condemned for it. Then he remembers pale skin and golden hair and bleeding lips twisted with sadness but also defiance - and what more, he remembers blue eyes with fiery determination and thinks that, yes, it was definitely worth it.
"They look vicious don't they?"
A voice from somewhere behind him breaks him away from his thoughts. He glances up from his food and promptly grimaces. So the public are arriving. It's good, he guesses - the more publicity the more money earned. Not to mention that women love to gaze upon (and sometimes touch, he remembers fondly) the gladiators. But for some reason, this day he is on edge.
He disregards the way the banquet area becomes more crowded and ignores the stares in favor of eating. He doesn't need to show off much this night - he's had many battles behind him, and had already gained much love from the crowd in the past.
"They call that one there the Winter Soldier," James vaguely hears, "For his eyes hold the promise of death and his heart is cold and hard."
He tries not to roll his eyes at the words.
Before he tunes out of the conversation, however, he hears a weary sigh.
"I know not why you bring me here; this sport holds no interest..."
James lifts his gaze from his plate and turns it toward the voice, the familiarity of it too tantalizing to ignore. He takes a sharp inhale, eyes drinking in the purpled-lined, off-white toga wrapped around a lean frame that belonged to someone who wasn’t a boy nor yet truly a man.
He had the same gold hair, the same eyes as before – only this time they seemed stricken with a mixture of recognition and horror, no – guilt?
James tilted his head, mouth quirking up despite himself.
“Oh, so now you hold interest in this – what did you call it? ‘Mindless sport’?” James let his eyes flicker toward the man with the mocking voice who now threw an arm around the young noble’s shoulder, “What peculiar things catch your attention, young Steven.”
The young noble – Steven – looked just about to approach him, and James couldn’t help but straighten up, a feeling in his belly coiling. Only for him to grit his teeth when the older man used the arm he had around Steven to steer the young noble elsewhere.
“Now, over here, Steven! I’m sure you’ll see enough of him in tomorrow’s battles. Surely you’ll go now that you’ve found someone to root for, yes?”
“Stark – wait –“
“No waiting – come with me over here – look, their weaponry!”
James wanted to get up as he watched Steven try to move back toward him, but he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“If you’d ask for my advice, I’d say you stay out of the nobles’ business.”
James shrugged off the hand with a grunt and a glare, “Then, it is just as well that I didn’t ask for your advice, Dugan.”
But when he turned back to look for the young noble and his unwanted chaperone, they were all but dissolved into the crowd. With a huff, James settled back in and continued to eat.
It didn’t matter in the end. He had a battle to prepare for.
--- ---
The crowd’s roar was almost deafening. It was always this way – most times James believed the crowd had even more bloodlust than the most blood thirsty beasts in the venationes.
He’d be a liar to say if it didn’t excite him, however. He wonders briefly how much these games – games they call it – have changed him, but before he could think too much on it, the gates to the arena rise and he enters.
The roar of the crowd grows even more thunderous.
He thrusts his lance in the air, fist clenched tightly around it, and gives them a sharp smile. They love it – the vultures. As he turns to face his opponent who entered after him, his eyes catch the sight of gold.
Steven. His mind supplies – a name he couldn’t forget even as he closed his eyes that night for rest. It was nice to have it; to put it along with the face of the man he helped. He keeps watching until he is certain they’ve retained eye-contact, and then grins – only to huff out a laugh at the half-startled look on the young man’s face he receives in response. James also notices the small flush forming on Steven’s pale skin, though. He rather likes it.
Soon enough the battle commenced. His grin shrinks down, mouth now pressed in a fierce line.
His opponent carried with him a sica in one hand and a parma in the other, but in the end he was ill-equipped and not even near as skilled as James in battle. James used the long-ranged lance to his advantage, and when the time came and his opponent was exhausted and injured, he would come in closer and strike with his scutum, an attack he was rather known for.
Between exchanged blows, James allowed himself a glance at the stadium above, the faces of the crowd seemingly blurred save for the young noble. He hadn’t much time to distinguish whether the worry seen on the man’s face was really there or just in his mind before a hit jarred his left arm. It was a mere cut, nothing so detrimental that the medici could not handle, but it was enough to retrieve his sole attention to the battle at hand. The strikes he made became quicker, deadlier. He dropped his lance and drove his armored forearm into the throat of his opponent, leaned back and struck out again – this time with his scutum. When the man got back up and swung, he tumbled for his lance and swiped it along the man’s arm.
It wasn’t long until his opponent was on the ground for good, and he waited for the signal to either kill, or spare the man’s life. And even before James positions his lance at the man’s throat he can hear the crowd’s demands to take the man’s life. He looks up, straight at Steven, curious to see how the young noble’s face looked when he demanded blood.
He didn’t get to see it – instead, he was met with an impassive stare. James raised a brow at the way Steven’s thumb pressed into the fist he made with his other hand.
Spare him.
James narrows his eyes thoughtfully, and then gives Steven a short nod before bringing his lance back to his side. There is a cry of outrage all around him but it quickly dies down when the crowd realizes the nobles each hold up the signal for his opponent to be spared – but that is not what James notices. No – what he focuses on is the pleased gleam in the young noble’s eye, the small, almost private smile on his face.
----
The blood was still rushing through his veins for the duration of his visit with the medici. As he sat, he allowed himself to smile at them – as well the red-haired female gladiator as she walked by.
The one wrapping his arm with cloth raised an eyebrow and lightly commented, “You seem to be in very high spirits for one as bruised and cut-up as yourself.”
He looked up at her and smirked, “I won and get to live another day – why should I not be in high spirits?”
The sound of someone clearing their throat interrupts any response she had for James, and he’s a little disappointed at how fast she leaves when she turns and sees who it is, although it’s replaced with a bit of something else when his eyes land on the guest.
He remains silent as Steven approaches him, his lips curling slightly at the edges. Soon after, he finds his eyes roaming over the young noble’s body. He was smaller than James is, but not as small as James remembered he’d been the first time they met. It was about the time James started admiring how plump Steven’s lips were before the other cleared his throat again – face flushed nicely (a trend, James found, he quite liked).
Biting his lips so he would not laugh outright, James lifts his gaze up to rest on his eyes then tilts his head. After a small moment he says in a teasing voice,
“There must be a reason that you are gracing me with your presence. Unless, that is, you’re not here to see me at all. Tell me, are you looking for someone to take care of the problem you have with your throat?”
He takes pleasure in the glare he receives – the severity of it lessened by the flush still overtaking Steven’s face.
“I am here for you,” Steven finally says – and James can’t help but love those words, “I wanted to apologize.”
James raises his brows at that.
“I hadn’t known that you – well, I didn’t know of your punishment,” Steven continues, and when he sees James’ confusion he explains, “I am St –“
“Steven,” James interrupts, “Yes, I am aware. I heard your – friend? – call you such yesterday, and your clothing tells me your status, young nobleman.”
He watches as Steven nods and then unconsciously bring a hand up to run through his golden hair.
“So you know me, then. I didn’t want to assume,” Steven quirks his lips, “And do you remember helping me?”
“I remember saving you,” James counters, and then chuckles at the way Steven grimaces.
“I would have gained the upper-hand eventually,” Steven huffs.
“Of course,” James nods, a genuine smile spreading across his face – one which Steven returns despite himself. Though after a moment, Steven’s smile drops.
“I am sorry for what you had to endure as consequences for – helping – me. Had I known sooner…”
Ah, so that was the guilt James had seen the night before. He leans forward, reaching over to nudge at Steven’s arm – a need for contact disguised as a placating gesture.
“Don’t blame yourself,” he says, “I made my choice. I stand by it.”
Steven’s confusion is as clear as day, “You bear me no ill will?”
And James has to stop for a brief moment – because, he supposes he could blame Steven for it, but he doesn’t. The mere thought of holding any grudge against the man before him sits uneasily with him, but he doesn’t truly know why. He doesn’t even attempt to explain all of that to Steven. Instead he says,
“Why would I?” He grins up at the young noble from where he’s seated, “I was able to teach a few noble’s spoiled sons a lesson. And it wasn’t as if you put me here yourself.”
Steven nods, but James can still see the guilt on his face – a strain around the mouth that does not belong to a man such as him. But before James could spew out more reassurances, Steven opens his mouth to tell him,
“Well, you need not be here anymore.”
The words on James’ tongue die out as he falls into a deep silence. He regards Steven warily, not truly understanding the meaning of what has been said just yet.
At James’ silence, Steve nervously continues, “I have searched for you. You are the Winter–“he stops at the shuttered look that drops over James’ face, then starts again, “Your name is James, yes?”
He nods a yes, still regarding Steve carefully.
“I’ve paid your lanista. Your debt is gone.”
James narrowed his eyes, “And what benefit is this to you? You must want something in return.”
Steven seems to grow timid under his gaze – but it’s slight, shown only on the surface. James can see the look of determination in his eyes, the same as all that time ago.
“I wanted to have you train me, if that is something you are willing to agree to. I would be honored to become stronger – like you are.”
James finally stands from his seat, slowly, towering over Steven as he moves even closer than they previously were.
“And if I say no?” He questions, a brow raised – defiant just for the sole purpose of being so.
Steven shrugs his shoulders – not intimidated by far – and says, “If you say no, then you do not have to. You are a free man.”
A sly smile finds its way spreading across James’ mouth then, as he brings a hand to cradle Steven’s jaw. He does it slowly, so that Steven may move away if he wished, but that was not the case.
“So you’ll have me as…your trainer?” he asks, voice hushed.
He feels more than he sees Steven swallow, but the young man nods all the same. James leans in to rest his forehead upon Steven’s, hand sliding to cradle behind the young man’s neck now. He takes in the sound of Steven’s hitched breath with a smirk.
“I will not go easy on you,” he murmurs.
The grin spread across Steven’s face was a thing of the gods.
“Good,” he returned, “I would not have it another way.”