Work Text:
It’s strange how a single word manages to tip the balance.
It’s said in passing, a soft murmur that Esca barely remembers uttering after a bout with Marcus. He collapses, boneless, by the Roman’s side; his destined place, his chosen place.
Marcus is usually quiet after the event. Gasping, his chest rising and falling, his eyes are fixed above him. He looked that way after the surgeon had been, the remnants of pain show in his tightly closed jaw.
Esca props himself up onto his elbows, and he sighs; the furs falling off his shoulders like a great furry cloak. He wishes it were not so, that Marcus could find his peace with this. With them.
They fuck. They farm. They live.
It is simple.
Humble living suits them both. Marcus recoils from Rome’s attention, having been the subject of cruel scrutiny for too long. Esca simply wishes to get on with some sort of life; and not have to worry about grander things.
If he is not stopped, Marcus will over think himself into a dark mood which turns him into a cold lump of stone. If Esca wants his Marcus returned to him, he is forced to chip away until the stone breaks.
He seeks to perk Marcus up with some affection, which he knows the Roman is weak for. There has been little tenderness in either of their lives.
Esca reaches over, and glides his knuckles along Marcus’ cheek. Marcus looks over, a question in his features. His green gaze is for once, truly unguarded; his long eyelashes flutter like butterfly wings.
Esca smiles, he cannot help it. There are things about Marcus he is weak for too. “You’re so beautiful tonight.”
He steps out of bed for a moment, to piss by the door; and has his back to Marcus in the time it takes for the Roman to retreat behind his walls.
When Esca returns, Marcus has rolled onto his side; which is not that comfortable for his leg. He’s inched himself almost to the edge of their bed, hardly any room left for his bulky frame. The distance between them now has become enormous.
Esca frowns, and gets back under the furs; their scent has mingled together into something musky and heavy with sex. Once cosy, he fists a hand in Marcus’ tunic, which he has taken to sleeping in on account of the chilly nights.
He gives it a tug, trying to draw the foolish Roman back to where he should be. “Come ere’...”
Marcus pulls his tunic out of Esca’s grasp, growling under his breath. “Let me sleep.”
Esca persists. “You’ll get cramp like that.”
This time, Marcus sharply smacks away the other man’s hand, as if cuffing a dog that has come begging for scraps before he is done eating. “I’m fine.”
The gesture stings, the dismissal cutting into Esca’s breast. He feels a fool, rejected and smarting. This how it once was between them, in the first unsure twilight of their bond; they would indulge each other’s bodies, but nothing else.
The hurt turns to anger.
He clambers atop Marcus with the ease of a squirrel climbing a tree, and sits there on his hips. “No.”
The Roman shoves Esca by the shoulders. “Get off!”
Esca seizes both of his wrists and pins them down above Marcus’ head; it takes a matter of seconds. The Roman is broad and strong, but Esca is more nimble. “Not until you tell why you’re angry.” He said, determined to sniff out the cause of Marcus’ temper.
The Roman squirms and growls, steadily growing more livid. “Get off, damn you!”
The Briton stays firmly where he is.“No. You will tell me.”
Marcus lets out a furious snort, and obstinately turns his head away, his mouth tightly shut. He says nothing more, doesn’t even struggle.
The stubborn pig-headedness of Roman’s will be his undoing, Esca thinks. They remain there for some time, and soon Esca’s hands are moving up and down in a calm caress as opposed to a restraint.
The Roman has entrenched himself deeply now, the Briton cannot simply pound the battlements with his fists in the hopes of getting in. He must try a different tactic.
Esca grins slowly, teeth flashing like a fox about to devour an unfortunate rabbit; shinning with mischief. Marcus noticed, and scowled.
In a soft, loving tone, the Briton said, “Where’s my Marcus?”
The Roman’s eyes, the hue of the hills around went wide, his body stiffening under Esca’s grasp. “Esca, no.”
Esca leaned in, and asks again, “Where’s my Marcus?”
Marcus looked almost murderous, but at the same time had an uncertain note in his voice. “Don’t you dare.”
Sinking his teeth into the Roman’s throat produced a started yowl, which dissolves into breathy moans as he nibbled Marcus’ strong chin. He concentrated his weight on Marcus’ chest, thumbing his nipples in rough circles.
Marcus couldn’t shift, his bad leg slipping on the sheet underneath so he was unable to roll over and throw Esca off. “Light of Mithras-! Fuck!”
The Briton smirked against Marcus’ skin, crude language already. Esca lavished attention on the Roman’s weakest points; he’d made an exquisite mental map every time Marcus had responded a certain way during their intimacy. His neck, his earlobes, but worst of all the tell tale chin strap scar.
“I asked you a question.” Esca nipped Marcus’ nose.
The Roman hissed through his teeth, “Let me alone!”
Unperturbed, Esca continued. “Maybe he’s hiding here.” He gave Marcus’ ribs a few teasing pokes, which was enough to send him writhing with short barks of laughter.
“Or here.” Esca bit Marcus’ left nipple, the Roman gasped, flushing a cherry red that went all the way down to his toes. By now they’re both half erect, but that can be dealt with later.
Finally, he traced his tongue along the edge of Marcus’ chin scar. “Or here, maybe.”
“Alright!” Marcus spluttered, freeing one of his arms and thumping it up and down on the bed; a gesture taken from their wrestling games. “Great gods! I yield! I yield!”
The Briton shook his head. “That’s not what I want to hear.”
“You-” Before Marcus can form the words, Esca bites down hard on the scar, even if he has to tilt his head at an uncomfortable angle.
Marcus can take no more; he barely swallows a deep pleasure laced groan, his hips twitching. He relents at last and says aloud with a needy whine, “I’m your Marcus! I’m here! Where I always am!”
With that Esca lets him go; a string of hot spittle hangs from Marcus’ flesh to his mouth as he pulls away. “Better.”
The Roman throws a floppy arm over his eyes, opening his mouth to regain his breath. His high colour has not faded at all. “You’re an absolute bastard,” He grumbles.
It’s an odd game, but it works.
On one autumn day past, when there was still much to do before the darkness of winter, Esca returned home to find Marcus by the fire. He liked tending to it, and had done so on their journey beyond the wall.
For no reason at all, it inspired such adoration in Esca to see him there, muttering his strange prayers to his cave-god. He came up behind the Roman, and wrapped himself around Marcus like a limpet.
“Where's my Marcus?” He’d asked, muffled by the thick neck.
The Roman had turned around, blinking as if he didn’t understand. “I’m here.”
In the present, Esca takes Marcus’ wrist and pulls it away, not letting Marcus hide. “Tell me, then.”
When he does open up, it’s a tentative thing, like a flower unpeeling its petals in the early morning sun. “...you called me beautiful.” If Esca weren’t this close, he would not have heard Marcus.
Confused, Esca puzzles this over. “That wasn’t an insult, Marcus.”
“I know.” Marcus’ eyes are everywhere but on the Briton’s face. “But... men aren’t beautiful, Esca. Real men aren’t, anyway.”
He swallows, as if a lump of something distasteful has gathering in his throat. “It’s not something one says to a man.”
“You will spoil our evening for that?”
“Handsome would do better.” Marcus is having some trouble explaining his meaning. “I wouldn’t... feel...”
“Less?” Esca feels icicles forming in his blood, and his heart begins to pound like a war drum. His speech come out gritted and bitter. “Does my love make you feel inadequate, ashamed?”
“No, Esca.” Just as quickly as Esca’s fury arrives, Marcus reaches to console him. “It’s not you. It’s just hard to unlearn the things I was taught.”
That melts some of the ice, Esca allows himself to be filled with warmth for Marcus; and realises that yes, what they have is imperfect and fragile. But it is still theirs. Rome cannot ruin it.
“Then let me teach you new things.” He leans down, whispering. “Better things.”
Marcus feels it too, and his full lips curve into a small, shy smile. “Like what?”
“Like how the word doesn’t matter.” He’s babbling, which is most unlike him. “Handsome, beautiful, radiant. They mean the same; they come from the same place.”
Curiously, the Roman tilts his head. “Where would that be?”
“In my heart.” Esca admits, feeling his own face heat. “Where my Marcus resides.”
Marcus lets out a laugh, and beams, brimming with unadulterated surprise and joy. The cause and incident of his melancholy have vanished, as if nothing ever happened. Esca cannot deny the relief that settles in his breast.
“You should have been a poet.”