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Virgil’s health always improves in March. 

The harsh gales and rains of winter ebb away with the warming temperatures, and with them recedes the strain on Virgil’s frail constitution. 

Pollio is lounging out in his courtyard for a change – likely inspired by the new arrival of the warm, spring breeze. The servant who had escorted Virgil walks ahead and leans down to murmur into Pollio’s ear. 

“Ah, Virgil, you’re just on time.” Pollio turns to face him, giving a tight smile. His smiles are always somewhat strained – probably the aftermath of slaving for decades in the field of politics. 

Virgil struggles to return the expression as he tilts his head in greeting. “Good morning, governor. It has been a few weeks – are you well?”

“Well enough,” Polio chuckles dryly. “Yourself?”

“Just the same,” Virgil keeps his eyes on Pollio, who has already looked away. “Actually, what happened recently in Gaul–”

“Ah, ah,” Pollio tuts. “We are in the beautiful city of Rome, young one. Let us focus on that.”

Virgil frowns, but closes his mouth.

“Anyway,” the governor continues, eyes fanning out to the landscape of his gardens. “I have something special planned for our appointment today,”

Virgil feels his muscles tense. He has never been fond of surprises, especially ones that came from high-ranking politicians. “Special?” He prompts. 

“Someone,” Pollio clears his throat, “will join our meeting today. I have wanted you to meet him for a time, actually.” 

Virgil may be socially inept, but the man’s sour expression is telling even to him.

“Are you certain you did not–” It is Virgil’s turn to clear his throat. He cannot possibly accuse his own patron of mixing up dates. “Are you certain my prescense is required?”

“Yes, yes.” Pollio gives a humourless chuckle. “You fret far too much. Just remember to think critically – you’ve always been easily swayed.”

Virgil feels a tick of irritation. Highly as he thinks of Pollio, there are some aspects of the man he simply cannot stand. 

“Who is this person?” Virgil asks, trying to keep any terseness from his voice. It must be some important political figure – maybe another governor. Perhaps some sort of benefactor? 

“You will find out soon enough.” Now Polio actually looks amused – as though Virgil is a small, innocent child who must be doted on. “You’ve no doubt heard of him; his presence is so immense that everyone in Rome knows of his exploits. “

Someone older, then. Maybe a prestigious general or commander in the military. “What is his name?” Virgil asks. 

“All in good time,” Polio says, seeming to draw amusement from keeping Virgil in the dark.

Virgil clenches his lips together to keep the irritation from dashing out in the form of a curse. “Why can you not just–”

Before Virgil can say more, Pollio’s eyes focus on something behind him, and he rises from his chair, opening his arms in welcome. “Caesar,” he smiles. 

Virgil freezes. The name is intimately familiar, having rolled from the tongues of just about every Roman citizen of late. Limbs stiff with cold dread, Virgil turns around. 

It is not an old general who stands in the doorway, nor a rich governor. It is instead a very young man, dressed rather simply, who faces them with a calm expression. 

Virgil’s breath sticks itself in his throat. 

It’s him, alright – the people had murmured to each other of the man’s grace and beauty, the divine light that seemed to surround him. Virgil can see it from the strict way he holds himself to the almost-glowing quality of his pale golden eyes, framed by blonde lashes. 

Octavian’s brows twitch minutely. It isn’t quite a frown. “Esteemed Pollio,” he says, no particularly warm inclination to his voice. Those piercing golden eyes land on Virgil, assessing. “Who is this?” 

“This is Publius Vergilius Maro ,” the governor walks up to Virgil’s side, “an aspiring young poet, with whom I have had many opportunities to converse of late.” 

Augustus raises an eyebrow. “Oh? I was not aware that anyone would be joining us today, especially not someone so refined.” 

“Esteemed Senator,” Virgil finally finds his tongue, “please, call me Virgil. I have been fortunate enough to receive the guidance of the governor – but, actually, he also did not inform me you would be here today.” 

Virgil’s eyes follow the movement of Octavian’s lips as they curve upwards ever so slightly. “Oh Pollio, you and your mischief.” The senator shakes his head in a show of good nature. “We will still have our discussion as planned, I hope?”

“Why of course,” Pollio acquiesces. “That was what I had in mind. I just thought Virgil might offer some insight. He has quite the sharp mind.” Pollio winks at Virgil with those words, and Virgil feels the spark of returning anger. The mocking is somewhat of a pastime for his patron, to which Virgil should have grown used to by this point. 

“Virgil.” All of a sudden, Octavian’s smile is aimed at him, and where the warmth had been absent a moment ago the man’s voice has gained a timbre as golden as the hair on his head. His eyes abruptly remind Virgil of sunlight. “You’ll join us then, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Virgil answers. 

***

It is less than two months after their first meeting that the man is thrown into Virgil’s path yet again. 

March has by now taken a turn for May, and the sun glimmers on smooth marbled columns, unobscured at last. That same sun illuminates the startlingly blonde head of hair that Virgil smacks into when he turns the corner. 

Graceful as he is, even Octavian stumbles back a few steps, eyes large and doe-like with shock. 

“I-I am so sorry,” Virgil hastens as he reaches his hand to steady the other. His heart beats wildly, foolish with embarrassment. 

Octavian rights himself and blinks, eyes returning to their refined almond shape, the splintered gold of his irises regarding Virgil evenly. 

“You’re the poet,” he says, a teasing lilt betraying his familiarity. “Virgil, was it?”

“Quite right.” Virgil swallows in characteristic unease. His eyes dart around despite his best efforts. “A pleasure to meet you again, esteemed Senator.” 

“The pleasure is all mine,” the other replies, amusement flickering through his gaze. His arms cross over his chest, lip quirking upward in one corner. The expression combined with his piercing eyes makes Virgil’s heart jump. “Where were you running off to in such a hurry?” Octavian continues, looking over Virgil’s formal state of dress. 

Virgil shifts as Octavian’s eyes slip over his entirety. “I was heading for a meeting with the governor,” he replies, standing up straighter. “I trust you were leaving after attending a similar errand?”

Octavian’s smile widens. “Well perceived, my friend. Though I did not think you would go so far as to call your meetings with your patron ‘errands.’”

He is joking. Despite his slight social ineptitude, Virgil can discern the minute raise of the man’s brow, the glint in his shining, golden eyes. 

Virgil finds his own lips lifting into a semblance of a joyful expression. “You scold the governor for his antics, yet you seem quite the jester yourself.”

That makes Octavian’s eyes curve in tandem with his lips. For one silent moment, he pins Virgil beneath his amused, golden gaze. Then he huffs and steps past. “Well, allow me to upkeep that persona, and ask you to absent yourself from your ‘errand’ to join me at my estate.”

Virgil opens his mouth. “I,” he tries. “I do not think that would be proper–” 

“Come on.” Octavian glances over his shoulder. His eyes seem to peer directly into Virgil’s soul. “You and I both know you aren’t as meek as Pollio makes you out to be.” 

Virgil grapples for a rebuttal, but finds nothing. “Your perceptiveness is more admirable than mine, Senator.” 

“Call me Octavian, please.”

“Octavian.” The syllables feel strange wrapping around his tongue – too informal, too personal. Then, because there seems to be little else he can do, Virgil nods. “If you insist. Let’s give the governor something more exciting to worry about than land borders.”

Octavian mirrors his smile, and begins to walk to a sedan which waits for him out on the road. The man gestures for Virgil to climb in, and the latter complies, curiously taking in the cramped space. Octavian seats himself at his side. 

Their legs touch. Virgil fights the urge to shift away.

They are lifted from the ground, the movement jostling Virgil’s balance and making his shoulder bump into Octavian’s. 

“My apologies,” he murmurs automatically, righting himself with an embarrassed flush.

For the first time ever, he berates the spring; it is much too warm in this small space. 

“It interests me greatly, you know,” Octavian says. “The art of writing.” 

“You are familiar with it,” Virgil contests. “I’ve heard of the grandeur of your speeches.” 

Octavian lets out an exasperated breath. “You must know it’s different.”

“How so?” Virgil raises an eyebrow. “I have never given a speech, so I cannot begin to imagine.” 

“It's quite simple.” Octavian looks at him and smiles. “A speech is written to be heard. It aims first to reach the ears, and only then to penetrate the heart. But a poem,” he shifts closer, like he is telling Virgil a secret. “A poem exists only to touch the heart.” 

Virgil swallows. The small space of the sedan feels all the smaller with Octavian this close. His golden eyes are broody in the shade, rich and enticing. 

“Poetry flows like water,” he says, trying to focus on anything but how close Octavian is. “It can fit into any mould, thereby filling any heart.” 

He chances a look up at Octavian, and is immediately, helplessly trapped by the intensity of his gaze. “When I read poetry,” Octavian murmurs, almost to himself. “It has always felt a like a conversation. A dialogue of two souls.”

“It is quite personal,” Virgil agrees thoughtfully. “As both a creator and a consumer of the craft, I must admit it.” He smiles. “And I know that my words are always from the heart, and intended for it, too.” 

Octavian continues to look at him, not quite assessing, but seeming to observe him, the features of his face. “I think,” he finally says, “that there is no touch more intimate than the words shared between a poet and his reader.” 

***

“I've written something new,” is the first thing Virgil says when he sits down next to Octavian. 

Over the year that they’ve been acquainted, this meeting is perhaps their twentieth, though Virgil has stopped keeping count. The end of summer hangs in the air, and the breeze does not sing as it did in earlier months. It is those stagnant days of heat and sun and humidity that really tear at people's spirits, and the shade of Octavian’s veranda is a welcome relief.

Virgil hears the man's amused huff and knows what expression he wears before he even sees it. Octavian is smiling, eyes bright as the overhead sun. “You want me to read this one too, I presume?” 

Originally, Virgil had decided against sharing this particular piece. There was nothing amiss with the three previous Eclogues he’d written, but number four posed an issue. 

He still remembered clearly the evening he had written it, desk and the parchment swaddled in candlelight. In the lateness of the hour, his mind idle, Virgil had not been able to keep his thoughts from slipping into a memory that he had been exceedingly careful not to think about.

A cramped sedan. The gentle press of their legs. The timbre of voices, low in the shielded, private space. Eyes dimmed but ever golden.

The mere thought of it is almost scandalous, yet all they had done was discuss poetry. 

Virgil had run a hand through his hair at the unbidden return of that memory, feeling his cheeks heat with a flush. His mind had continued racing, helpless to itself. The sharpness of his mind. The divinity of his name. The gold.

Gaius Julius Caesar. 

In the end, it was all he could do to write. 

Against his best judgement, Virgil had not tossed the poem straight into the hearth. Perhaps it was Apollo’s interference, but Virgil had stared at the parchment for a long time before proclaiming it Eclogue four. 

No mind but his own would be able to feel the admiration behind those words, anyway. Nobody would even know who it was for. 

Virgil gazes out at Octavian’s lavish gardens as the other pours over the parchment handed to him, and Virgil can feel the Senator’s satisfaction as his eyes scan the words. 

“Your thirst for literature can nary be sated,” he muses. 

“How can it be,” Octavian does not even take his eyes from the words, “when I am afforded the pleasure of reading Rome's greatest works fresh from the quill?” 

“I will bring you the rest the second they’re written,” Virgil huffs in lieu of answer. 

Camilla, Octavian’s most revered servant, walks up to the table with a jug of wine. Virgil nods his head at her as she places it, mildly bashful. She gives him a cool smile in response before turning and leaving just as swiftly as she had appeared. Virgil is loath to admit it, but he is more than a little scared of her. Her eyes are sharper than the knives she uses to cut fruit. 

As Octavian reads on, Virgil’s fingers twine and untwine in his lap. Despite his earlier bravado, there is an edge to the situation, a dreadful anticipation of the other discovering his true intentions. 

There is no touch more intimate than the words shared between a poet and his reader, Octavian had said. 

Virgil wholeheartedly agrees with the sentiment. However, some readers shy away from such a touch, closing their hearts in rejection. Octavian is not one of these people, which scares and thrills Virgil simultaneously. 

When Octavian stays silent after his eyes had moved past the last word on the parchment, Vrgil wonders if, perhaps, the words confused him more than anything. He doesn’t know if that relieves or frustrates him. 

“A golden age,” Octavian breathes, and looks back towards Virgil. He quirks his typical teasing half-smile. “I wonder, who was the muse for this piece, dear poet?” 

“Who says I had a muse?” Virgil counters. It is in vain. He knows that Octavian’s sharp eyes see right through him. 

***

Virgil first meets the general when he goes to find Octavian in his estate. In their previous correspondence, the senator had told him to do as such at the earliest convenience, since he had recently been enlightened with several ideas for poetry of his own. 

I would like to enlist your help, if it is not too much trouble, the ink had spelled. Your writing always speaks to me most dearly, and of all the poems I have read, yours place upon my heart the most intimate of touches.

Virgil’s face had gone red as he read the words, mouth parting in a small gasp. With both of their deep literate knowledge, the coquettish nature of the words was nowhere near lost. Virgil had to take a moment to compose his breath. He then took out a fresh sheet of parchment and began to pen his response. 

Perhaps the letter of the intended time and date of his arrival had not reached Octavian before Virgil himself set foot in his estate, for the man was busy entertaining another guest. Despite Virgil’s protests that he would return another time, Camilla ushers him into the courtyard, silent and relentless. 

Octavian sits with his back to him, in easy conversation with the man opposite. The guest’s face is harsher than Octavian’s, Virgil immediately notices, with a more defined bone structure and somewhat brooding gaze. Where Octavian is elegant and flighty, this man is solid and unmovable.

As said man’s dark eyes catch sight of Virgil, he rises in greeting. 

“Hello,” he says amicably. “Octavian, who might this be?” 

The familiarity with which he addresses Octavian is almost strange – the ease of his tone and the warmth in his gaze. That is the sort of warmth shared only by people who have known each other a very long time. 

Octavian rises in tandem and turns, blinking before his lips widen into a smile. “Virgil! How unexpected. I did not think you would visit today. I see you received my letter.” 

“I apologise,” Virgil hastens, feeling his muscles coil subconsciously in the face of a stranger. “I did send one back two weeks ago, but it seems you have yet to receive it.”

“Not a worry, my dear friend,” Octavian says merrily. “Come, join us.” Then, as if remembering that the two had never met, he adds, “This is my general, Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa.”

The man – Agrippa – scoffs good-naturedly. “I am far more than your general, you mongrel.” 

“Unfortunately, my best friend here,” Octavian emphasises, “seems to have lost his manners. Marcus, this is my good friend Publius Virgilus Maro.”

“I have heard much about your exploits, General Agrippa,” Virgil says courteously. “And Octavian speaks about you with enthusiasm. The pleasure is mine.” 

“On the contrary,” Agrippa spreads his hands into the air, “I have heard endless praise for your proficiency with words. I have long wanted to meet the famed Virgil. Octavian would not stop talking to me after you wrote that poem–” he turns to Octavian, “which one was it again?”

“The fourth Eclogue, ” Octavian supplies, taking a nonchalant sip of his wine. 

Virgil, who had sat down and picked up his own cup, nearly spits the beverage out. Octavian gives him a sly glance. 

“Ah, yes,” Agrippa sighs and leans back into his seat. “It made me want to read it myself. Though I do hear that only the most special are privy to your unpublished material.”

“Well,” Virgil hastens. “Only Octavian, really, and only because he is so desperate that he would not stop pestering me–”

“Please,” Octavian interrupts, betraying only a hint of embarrassment. “You flatter yourself, my dear poet.” He turns towards Agrippa, and the men’s gazes rest on each other easily. Virgil feels himself frown. 

“Shall we continue where you left off, Marcus?” Octavian suggests, and as the general launches back into a report about the recent movements of Mark Antony to Egypt, Virgil finds himself looking at Octavian.

With an unexplainable feeling in his stomach, Virgil watches Octavian’s golden eyes settle onto Marcus Agrippa. 

***

As the climate in Rome takes a turn for the worst, so does the climate of the Republic’s politics. As Octavian’s friend, Virgil is now privy to the more delicate happenings of the senate. He knows scandalous details about Mark Antony; has heard choice words spouted about Lepidus; but mostly he has listened to Octavian for hours as the man recounted plan after plan to ensure the happiness and safety of the people. 

Octavian is a good senator, Virgil must admit, though he has no eye or taste for such aspects of life as politics. 

The secret of happiness – he told Octavian once, when their conversation had turned toward philosophy – is to live life to the fullest: doing what you love. That is how we live best, and it is how we pose the most use to this world. 

For Virgil, that thing had always been literature.

And, though Octavian had respectfully disagreed in favour of his own philosophy, Virgil could still see the man applying that very same principle to his work. Where Virgil sat for hours after nightfall pouring over stanzas, Octavian was pouring over governors’ letters and detailed maps. Politics was his life-breath, and no matter how much he denied Virgil’s views, they were still prevalent, with himself serving the clearest example. 

Naturally, as Octavian gains his twenty-second and third year before Virgil’s eyes, he grows also in the political world. Where before he had been great, now he becomes a presence of colossal influence within the senate. 

And yet, Virgil can see that Octavian still holds his country, first and foremost, in his heart. He is  not climbing so ambitiously up the perilous social ladder out of a lust for power – no. Just as Octavian’s gaze had seen through him when they first met, Virgil can now see easily through any rumours that shroud him. He knows the pureheartedness of the man as no one else does.

As Octavian’s political life grows more important, so too does General Agrippa’s presence grow more regular. Virgil would often drop by unannounced, only to find the two of them in deep discussion over matters of military and state. 

They are important to each other, he knows: childhood friends, with Agrippa giving his wholehearted loyalty to Octavian, his patron. And Octavian in turn places full trust in his right-hand man. 

Still, it is only with Virgil, alone and at ease, that Octavian is allowed a respite. With Virgil, who has little to say about stately matters and whose military prowess is as good as his health, Octavian is finally forced to drop such topics. 

And despite how much he seemed to live and breathe for the state of Rome, seeing the weariness of those worries fall away as the two discuss arts and writings and the intricacies of the soul – it is like seeing Octavian take his first breath in a long, long time. 

***

The servants have, by now, grown used to Virgil dropping by without warning. The all acknowledge him with warm familiarity, except for Camilla, who still looks icy despite everything. 

“How do you do, Camilla?” Virgil tries, an edge to his voice. He has yet to get over his unfortunate sentiment of the woman. 

Camilla regards him with cool eyes, and Virgil swallows. Then, unexpectedly, she gives a small half-smile. “Well,” she says simply. It is perhaps the first time she has acknowledged him with words, and Virgil feels himself deflate in relief. It could almost be interpreted as approval, coming from her. 

“He is in the sitting room,” she says. “Call if I am needed.”

“Thank you,” Virgil nods his appreciation, and moves past her a little too swiftly to be natural.

It makes sense that Octavian should be in the sitting room – he would be taking guests more readily there than in his courtyard due to the falling temperatures and misty autumn rains. 

Virgil almost expects to hear voices from the room as he approaches it – if not Agrippa’s, then maybe another of Octavian’s many acquaintances – but all is silent. 

As he comes up to the arched entryway, a scuffle makes his ears prick. Curiously, he peers into the room. 

It is only by the blessing of the gods that he does not immediately gasp.

Octavian is facing him, but his illuminating eyes have fallen closed, lashes glowing golden in the murky light and almost brushing the skin of his cheekbone. Most of his face is obscured by the back of Marcus Agrippa’s head, in the hair of which Octavian’s fingers have tangled. They stand close, closer than Virgil has ever seen them. Their lips are connected in a tender embrace. 

Frozen, Virgil stands stationary for several beats of his heart, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene. Then, the two shift against each other and Virgil backs up into the corridor. He turns on his heel and makes an escape as silent as his entrance. 

He brushes past a surprised Camilla and several other servants, not giving them even a moment to react before he finds his way outside.

Virgil does not remember the trip home, nor how his quill had ended up in his fingers, the tip of it scribbling furiously upon a piece of parchment. 

The ending result is a three-page-long, explicitly worded letter with various unhappy befallings wished unto Octavian. 

Virgil sits, breathing heavily, eyes boring into the uncharacteristically messy handwriting. The light outside has faded completely, and he breathes long sigh as he retrieves a candle. The tip of the flame bathes the room in a warm glow. 

He places it at the end of his desk and retrieves a new set of parchment, placing the tip of his quill onto the page. Calmer, slower, he begins to write. When it is coming upon the first hour of the morning, Virgil softly sets down the instrument and takes the parchment into his hands. He considers it for a moment – the gentle words and sentences he penned with such aching tenderness – bittersweet, for they can never come to pass. 

There is no use in his affection. Virgil brings the parchment to the flame of his candle and watches the fire eat away his heart. 

***

He keeps the less amiable correspondence – even debates sending it to the intended recipient. Upon waking up the next morning, though, Virgil’s vexation eases down to a raw ache, and his rational mind convinces him against handing the parchment to the messenger boy. He instead hides it umong all his other letters. 

Virgil doesn’t know why he doesn’t just burn those pages, too. There is something symbolic, maybe, about being able to validate his emotions with writing. And those pages contain none of the aching vulnerability with which Virgil had written the next letter. 

Octavian, of course, would find out that Virgil had visited that day. Would probably be informed by Camilla or the other, more gossip-hungry servants that Virgil had indeed sought him and then retreated hastily. The man’s lightning-fast mind would piece it all together effortlessly, and he would know that Virgil saw.

So when Octavian’s next letter comes, Virgil, wisely or not, does not pry open the bright wax seal of Octavian’s estate. Instead he places the letter deep into a drawer, and forces all thoughts of the senator from his mind. 

***

Perhaps Virgil had judged his wisdom too favourably. 

If he had read Octavian’s letter, he may have been enlightened to the fact that, should Octavian not receive a response, the man would take it upon himself to seek Virgil out personally. 

Virgil’s limbs turn to ice as he walks into his own estate, only to be met with a sharp, golden stare. 

Octavian rises from where he had been lounging on a divan, as graceful as when Virgil had seen him last. The corners of his mouth turn down, a furrow stationary between his brows. 

“You cannot run from me, Virgil,” is the first thing he says, and the implications would be menacing had his voice not been so full of relief. 

“I am not running,” Virgil defends easily. “I just thought we could use some time apart to focus on our own affairs.”

“You should know,” Octavian walks closer, “that the correspondence I sent a month ago mentioned nothing of us meeting in person. I simply stated my regret at not being able to entertain you at my estate when you had come by. And yet,” his arms cross over his chest, “you have not granted me the honour of a response.” 

His lips are saying one thing, but Octavian’s golden eyes are speaking a different language entirely. They flick over Virgil’s entire countenance, not missing a single twitch in his expression. 

Behind the gaze, Virgil suddenly detects a hint of desperation. Octavian must be frightfully concerned if he is letting his emotions slip so carelessly to the surface – especially ones that Virgil knows he does not want perceived. 

Virgil sighs, feeling a twinge of warmth for his old friend. “You are insatiable,” he tries. “One month without a letter, and already you seek me personally. Not merely to fret, I hope.”

A smile eases onto Octavian’s face at the familiar banter, but his eyes remain sharp, focused. Not softened with the usual solace that Virgil used to provide him. 

“You look paler,” Octavian murmurs, frowning again. “Have you been getting enough rest?” 

“Nor does your complexion look any less wan,” Virgil counters. “You look exhausted.”

It is true. Despite the shine of youth that still resonates from Octavian, it is clear the man has recently been subject to many anxieties and sleepless nights. 

“Let us go to the sitting room,” Virgil finds himself saying. “We can continue the discussion there. You need to rest from your journey.” 

“Of course,” Octavian replies absently, following Virgil to the larger, more luxurious divans. 

Virgil waves away the servants, watching them until the last man turns the corner. 

Quite suddenly, they are alone.

“Virgil.” Now out of sight and earshot of onlookers, Octavian spends no more effort disguising the fondness and worry in his tone. “You are displeased with me.” 

“Whoever said I was displeased with you,” Virgil murmurs, phrasing it less like a question and more like a jab. 

“Virgil,” Octavian repeats. Virgil averts his eyes. The longer he looks at the locks of golden hair, the innocently parted lips, those gods-forsaken eyes, the more feelings swirl unbidden in his chest. 

There is a shift of fabric, and Virgil feels the other's presence at his side, close but not quite touching. A finger hooks under his chin, and Virgil's shock at the gesture allows Octavian to guide his face to the side. 

Golden eyes, peering up at him with desperation, affection. Longing. 

“Look at me,” he whispers, and Virgil's lips part slightly, quivering for any semblance of response. 

His own eyes are wide and owlish, foolish: ever helpless in the face of Octavian. He is more helpless still as the other leans upward and forward. 

He can count separate lashes, low over golden eyes. He can feel the ghost of breath draw over his lips. Their noses could have brushed. 

Helpless to the temptation of it, Virgil is the one to lean down. He closes the gap between their lips. 

He feels the stutter in Octavian’s breathing as much as he hears it, the touch between them gaining solidity as Octavian leans into him, seeking Virgil's mouth, his hand sliding into the hair at the back of his head. Virgil's heart races faster than a chariot – Octavian’s lips are softer than he had ever imagined, his kiss gentler than a spring breeze – he places a shaking hand on the back of the other's neck, caressing his pulse point. 

Octavian’s blood thrums beneath the pad of his thumb. 

“Stay with me,” Octavian whispers as he draws back enough to open his mouth. “Never leave like that again.”

Virgil chases his lips, and Octavian leans back into the kiss, seeming, for the first time, just as helpless to Virgil as Virgil is to him. 

They pause softly for breath, and Octavian opens his eyes, their colour deepened to honey in the low light. “I need you by my side,” he says. “Always.” 

Virgil closes his eyes. He can not look at him. “You have General Agrippa.” He tries to keep the bitterness from his voice. 

“He is dear to me,” Octavian agrees. “As are you. Marcus is my right-hand man. But you…” 

For the first time since Virgil had known him, the man hesitates greatly, uncharacteristically conflicted on his next words. It’s like he does not know how to phrase his thoughts, but that cannot be true. Surely, what he feels for Virgil is not so complex as to be incommunicable. 

Yet when Octavian looks up at him, all tender and warm from their kiss, there is desperation in his eyes again, a longing to phrase something that can not find form. 

He looks younger like this, as the youthful man he truly is. Recently he seems to have taken on the appearance of a weathered soldier, all weary lines and hard eyes. But here, pressed close to Virgil, tender touches shared between, a kiss seems to awaken his bloom into a long-forgotten youth. 

“Marcus is the quill to my parchment,” Octavian finally says. “But, Virgil,” he leans forward, their lips brushing. “You are the words that touch my heart.” 

***

They do not see each other often, but the roguish getaways to empty rooms and corridors steal Virgil’s breath from his lungs. Octavian is exhilarating, as is the newness of seeing him this way – flushed, alluring, undone. 

He informs Virgil of his upcoming wedding, though Virgil does not need an explanation; he has come to know most higher-rank marriages to be endorsed only for convenience. Virgil attends the ceremony, and it is worth it if only for the simple reason that he gets to see Octavian in his formal toga. 

The bride is a strangely cheerful woman who Virgil comes to know as Livia, and he is immediately overtaken by her charm. She speaks warmly to Octavian, with friendliness and genuine interest. Octavian echoes the sentiments, and Virgil realises they must be good friends. He wonders what either of them have to gain from this marriage.

Camilla finds Virgil at the large table, where he picks at his food. She hovers ominously behind him until he turns. 

“Good day, Camilla,” he says.  

She levels him with her signature calculative look, and Virgil fights the urge to shift. 

“Do you approve of this marriage, Virgil?” She asks finally. 

“Well, I,” Virgil hesitates. “It isn’t really my place to–”

“It is a convenient arrangement,” Camilla continues, as if he hadn’t spoken. Her eyes look out to where the bride and groom sit at the head of the table. Virgil sees Livia’s eyes flicker to Camilla, sees them soften. 

Virgil blinks. “Ah.”

Camilla breaks her and Livia’s eye contact off with visible difficulty to look back down at Virgil. He is stunned by the smile that graces her lips. “Your eyes are far too keen, poet,” she teases, and Virgil cannot help his laugh. 

“Convenient arrangement, indeed,” he says, smiling up at her. “I am happy for you.”

“Thank you,” Camilla says. “I only wish…” she trails off, but Virgil can hear the unspoken. He wishes something similar, after all.

“In another life,” he says, “we can hope.”

With a final smile, Camilla retreats back to serve the remaining guests. 

Laughing about something with his bride-to-be, Octavian’s eyes flicker to Virgil, pools of gold and sunlight. 

Over the distance, they share a smile.

***

Only a year later Octavian is whisked away to Sicily for a second time to battle the menace that is Sextus Pompeius, and Virgil does not see him for several weeks. 

They continue their written correspondence, though, now filled with fond undertones and increasingly coy valedictions beneath recounts of any recent events. 

September brings cooler winds, but warmer news as Virgil hears word of Octavian and Agrippa’s success at Naulochus. 

When Octavian returns, Virgil’s constitution has buckled beneath the strains of winter, and he does not manage to attend the banquet held in honour of their victory. 

He does, however, receive a warm welcome several weeks later, when he is freshly recovered from his ailment. Octavian meets him in a warm embrace once they’re barely out of sight of the servants, and the connection of their lips is molten with highly-built anticipation. 

On one of Octavian’s plush divans, skin interlocked tightly with skin, Virgil reaches up to run his finger over a fresh scar atop the man’s ribs. He observes the shiver that runs beneath his touch, hears a small gasp. 

“You were injured,” he says, searching the deep gold of the other’s eyes, softened and cloudy with pleasure. 

Octavian hums and cover’s Virgil’s fingers with his own. His skin is a lighter colour than Virgil’s, sporadically freckled. 

“I was,” Octavian says. “He is dead now.” 

“I had no doubt,” Virgil affirms, and runs his hand over the wound again. “Still. You were hurt.” He pushes up onto his elbow so that he can lay his lips onto the scar, feeling Octavian’s hand tangle into his hair, bringing him back up to meet impassioned lips. 

Octavian’s hand slides down his body, and Virgil is submerged again in the heat of their love. 

He wonders how long things can stay this perfect. 

***

Octavian’s legs are crossed delicately at the ankles. The posture would have been a show of weakness, perhaps, if his entire being did not radiate authority and strength. His eyes survey the men dressed in formal togas, and Virgil knows he is observing their reactions to the outlines of his plans. With a flourish, he stands, toga waving behind him. 

He addresses the entire hall with his next words. 

“That will be all.” 

Virgil’s muscles seem to be made of wood as he walks out of the Senatorial Hall. He feels like an imposter, not just in the world of politics but in his own skin. There is a gnawing sensation in his chest, wishing to lash out and fight and protect. All things he cannot do. 

Not in politics, not in the battlefield. 

Virgil cannot protect Octavian. 

It is with this thought that he finds himself knocking on the door of an unfamiliar estate. A surprised servant lets him in, and leads him to a room which contains a desk. The man seated behind it looks up from his map. 

“You,” Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa blurts, before blinking and opening his mouth to correct himself. 

Virgil raises a hand. “No need to be courteous. Please, be at ease. We have had ample opportunity to get acquainted.”

Marcus closes his mouth, visibly discomforted by the lack of propriety. 

“Please, have a seat,” he says stiffly, and Virgil complies, glancing at the map. A blue expanse. Small, intricately-made models of ships. 

“You are ahead of schedule, planning an attack already,” he says.

Marcus shifts in his chair. “I assume this is what you’ve come to talk to me about. Though, under what concern, I can only guess. You have never been one for military matters.”

“Indeed.” Virgil sighs. “I cannot even begin to guess at what possessed Octavian to invite me to that senate meeting.”

Marcus looks strangely at him, before clearing his throat and interlocking his fingers atop the map of Actium. “So, you came here just to muse about Octavian’s intentions? Because, trust me, we will never get anywhere.”

Virgil chuckles despite himself. “No, no.” 

He studies Marcus’ face. Scarred, weathered. A man fit for Minerva and Mars. 

As perturbed as Marcus makes him, there are things worse than his discomfort. 

“He trusts you,” Virgil says, “implicitly.”

“If you think I mean to betray that trust, you–” Marcus starts, but Virgil shakes his head. 

“I apologise for insinuating such a thing. Actually, that trust gives me a fair amount of comfort.” He offers the other as much of a smile as he can muster. “If there is anyone he should be trusting so blindly, it is you.”

Marcus blinks. “I appreciate the sentiment.”

“I’ve come to make a rather selfish request,” Virgil says, fingers twitching with poorly concealed vexation. He looks up at Marcus’ perplexed expression. “Bring him back to me.”

Marcus opens his mouth, but Virgil is not finished. 

“No matter what it takes,” he says. “Win, and bring him back. These are trying times, and he will be Rome’s saving grace.”

“Well,” Marcus mutters. “As a selfish man, I can hardly oppose.”

“Takes one to know one,” Virgil admits tersely. 

He will be the saviour of Rome, echoes unsaid between them. But he is my saviour above all else. 

***

They meet for a final time the evening before Octavian is due to depart. He is uncharacteristically wired, twitchy and sighing in excess. 

When, after their meal has been cleared away, Virgil opens his arms, the other falls unhesitatingly into them, burying his face into Virgil's shoulder. Octavian’s arms press tightly to his back, drawing the two of them so close that there is not a gap even for air. 

Virgil holds Octavian just as tightly in turn, caressing a hand over the golden crown of his hair. 

“I will be thinking of you,” says Virgil, “always.” 

Octavian sighs out a laugh. “You speak as though this is the last time you will see me.”

“It isn't,” Virgil states with conviction. “I just wanted you to know.” 

Octavian draws back, softened by the dim candlelight. His fingers brush Virgil's cheek. “Then let me reassure you as well.” He tilts his head upward, and Virgil meets him in the middle, lips caressing each other with the softest touch. Octavian’s lashes glow as his eyes draw open again. 

“I will come back to you.” He rests a hand on the back of Virgil's neck, drawing him close, brushing their lips together in a phantom of a kiss. As they fall back into the padded cushions, Octavian whispers to him through the haze of their affections. 

“For as long as you think of me, Virgil. I will return to you.”

***

Virgil clings to those words when there is little else to cling to. When it comes, news is sparse and far between, and Virgil thinks he may very well lose his mind from all the trepidation he feels. 

Every day, he finds himself at the temple of Apollo, both his and Octavian’s favoured deity. 

Shelter him, he prays. From all the arrows and spears that may come forth. Rome needs him. I need him. 

After long hours of prayer, Virgil is surprised to see Camilla and Livia on one of his trips. Exiting the temple of Diana, both look somewhat crestfallen, until Livian notices him and her eyes light up.

She instantly pulls him aside, and Virgil indulges her in a hug. He can see in her eyes the griefs and anxieties that plague her, the very same ones that are haunting him. 

“Virgil,” she says, looking him over. “Oh, it’s dreadful, isn’t it?”

Virgil nods at her words, feeling a strange pang in his heart from seeing someone else share in his worries. 

“He will be safe, I know he will,” she murmurs, almost to herself, and Camilla takes her hand, brow creased in worry. 

“My love,” she says softly, as though Virgil is not even there. “It will be alright, truly.” 

“But who else would so willingly indulge my love for politics?” Livia vexes. “Who else would I endlessly pester with new ideas for laws and customs? Who would take me seriously enough to actually implement them?” 

She leans her head into Camilla’s shoulder, and Virgil begins to feel extremely out of place when Camilla starts to mutter quiet reassurances, a hand caressing Livia’s hair. 

“He will be fine,” Virgil mutters. “He will be.”

He bids goodbye to Camilla, who still comforts a grieving Livia, and walks with a heavy heart to his estate. 

Pointedly, Virgil does not write words of his affection into poetry. Instead, he starts up a new collection, throwing himself into all different subjects that keep his mind from obsessing over Octavian. 

He cannot help sending his prayers through the ink, though, penning the lines before he can think better of it: 

“... Caesar, who, in time, will live among a company of the gods, which one’s unknown, whether you choose to watch over cities and lands, and the vast world accepts you as bringer of fruits, and lord of the seasons, crowning your brows with your mother Venus’s myrtle.”

He writes, and he writes. Sometimes, he sleeps. 

When he wakes up one morning, cheek stuck to his parchment with ink, it's to a tentative knock on his door. Virgil stands, cursing and rubbing at the undoubtedly black stain on his face, and draws open the door. A servant bows his head before looking up at Virgil with dazzled eyes. 

“An urgent letter,” he says, “from Caesar–”

Virgil snatches it before the man can finish his sentence, tearing into the wax seal with no restraint. He thirsts for these words more than he thirsts for wine or water. When his eyes are able to drink them in, his heart leaps up to his throat. 

They’ve won. 

***

It is the first time in several months that he has seen Octavian. They’ve had longer separations, naturally, and survived them just fine – but after spending those weeks on the edge of a metaphorical chair, praying to Olympus and back that Octavian returns unscathed, their reunion is somewhat underwhelming. 

Namely, it's the fact that it cannot be called a reunion at all. Surrounded by noblemen and senators at the banquet who are all offering him congratulations, Agrippa glued to his side, Octavian is as untouchable as the deity Virgil sometimes thinks him to be. 

All the higher ups flock to him as moths to a flame, fluttering with praise to try and slip into his good graces. Virgil spots Pollio in the crowd, who, as he had come to know, had favoured Mark Antony over Octavian. Now he looks at Octavian like the man is coated in honey, acting ever benevolent and courteous. 

Alone at the edge of the room, Virgil can only frown. 

It is Camilla who finds him, dressed uncharacteristically lavishly. She had always preferred a more practical style, and Virgil cannot help admiring how the gem-adorned fabrics make her dark skin glow. 

“It has been a while,” she says, looking up at Virgil in calculation. “You should have come to visit the estate. Livia would have been happy to converse with you” 

“I,” Virgil says, a little taken aback by the sentiment. “At such a strenuous time, I couldn’t possibly impose–” 

“You are like family to us, Virgil.” Camellia smiles, and Virgil feels something warm flicker inside his chest. “You keep our secret as we keep yours. Secrets unite people.” 

She closes her eyes in what looks like fondness, and Virgil manages to keep from flinching as she reaches up to pat his shoulder. “Livia and I would be happy to welcome you at any time, even if he is not there. Come visit, will you?” 

Virgil cannot reply before she is off like the wind, flitting through the crowds to find her spot next to Livia again. Seeing the two of them makes Virgil’s heart warm, but the warmth comes in hand with a sharp ache.

He looks back over at where Octavian stands with Agrippa, and feels the lack of the man’s presence like a wound. 

At one point, Agrippa catches his eyes, and the two share a cool look. It isn’t dislike – not quite. Agrippa had kept his word, and Virgil can hardly detest him for it. He does not quite know what to make of Agrippa’s expression, but when the other turns his back, he steps slightly closer to Octavian. 

Virgil’s eyes focus on where their shoulders barely brush with the movement. He watches as Octavian’s lip ticks up ever so slightly at the corner. Then, for a moment, he thinks he sees Octavian’s gaze flicker to him. And then it’s gone, focused back on the noblewoman before him. 

Virgil does not leave the banquet early, though he feels an overwhelming urge to do so. 

No. 

Octavian’s living, breathing form before him is a blessing gifted by the gods, and he would never forsake it because of something as trivial as extensive social labours. 

So, he makes nice with all the people at the feast, exchanging courtesies and falsehoods. 

And yet, where Virgil spends all night staring at him, Octavian does not look at him at all. 

***

Octavian finds him a mere day later, flushed and clearly excited, though he tries to conceal it. Looking up at him with dull eyes, Virgil finds himself not sharing the sentiment. 

“Virgil,” Octavian says, some of the brightness fluttering from his eyes as he frowns. “You’re brooding again.”

“Now whyever would you think that,” Virgil mocks, unable to keep a drop of venom from his voice. 

Octavian’s frown deepens, and maybe Virgil would have felt a semblance of guilt if he wasn’t still stewing in his anger. The senator sits down beside him, careful not to disturb the cushions, as if that would anger Virgil more. 

“I came back,” Octavian says, voice dropping in volume to the more private tone that Virgil thought was reserved only for him. Perhaps he had thought wrong. 

But, then again, who is he to judge who Octavian sees in the weeks they spend apart? Who is he to judge if that person is Agrippa? A formidable general – a fighter, a politician, a strategist – someone Virgil can never hope to be.

“That you did,” Virgil finally answers.

“I’m sorry I was not able to speak with you at the banquet,” Octavian says, and the lack of lustre in his tone makes the apology hit Virgil as frighteningly genuine. “One is able to do surprisingly little,” he muses, “the more power he gains.”

“I am shocked you noticed my presence there at all,” Virgil replies bitterly. “You seemed quite focused on the General at your shoulder.” 

“Virgil.” 

He hears the slide of fabric as Octavian moves closer to him. Already, Virgil finds his anger ebbing away in the face of the familiar relief, and he clings to the vexation desperately. That feeling is true, and it is his. Despite what Octavian may claim, Virgil knows that feelings are not there to be ignored. 

“Octavian,” he answers, turning to glower at the man. 

Octavian’s eyes are as golden as he remembers them, beautifully flecked with butter yellow. 

He is so entrapped by the gaze that he barely feels the hand reaching up to his cheek, sliding along his skin and into his hair, pulling him down. 

Falling into the man is easier than anything Virgil has ever done. Many times they have danced this dance; it is known to them, and yet Virgil cannot help the wonderful thrill that flies through him every time Octavian kisses him. 

It is chaste, not languid and sensual like it might have been, had their first encounter gone differently. 

Octavian draws away, just enough for Virgil to see the smile that spreads his lips. 

“I had an idea,” he says. “For a poem.”

Anger all but forgotten, Virgil listens carefully. Octavian has had many such ideas, yet few have made it past the initial conversation. 

“But,” Octavian continues, chuckling to himself. “I lack the proper talent to write something of the magnitude I’m imagining.”

“That might be the first time I’ve heard the great Caesar admit a weakness,” Virgil mocks, unable to keep his hands from running over Octavian’s face, his shoulders and arms. 

He is alive, he is in Rome, he is with Virgil. Maybe that should be enough. 

Octavian breathes a laugh at the comment, his eyes turning to crescents in amusement. “A smart man knows where his strengths lie, but most importantly, where they do not,” he says, then leans over to murmur in Virgil’s ear. “I want you to write it for me, Virgil. You are the most amazing poet I know.”

A pleasant shiver runs down Virgil’s body, and his hands touch now out of a different motivation entirely. 

“Would you bestow the favour unto me?” Octavian teases breathlessly as Virgil rains kisses on his face.

As he pushes Octavian into the cushions, Virgil whispers in a similarly intimate voice. 

“Of course.”

***

When he leaves, the anger returns, manifesting into frustration as he agonises over the poem Octavian has commissioned him to write. 

It is almost a torture, being forced by his work to think about the man every second of the day. 

The pieces are slowly coming together in Virgil’s mind, as they often do when he writes something this large. Octavian had instructed him to use the classics as inspiration, and Virgil spends several hours digging out his copies of The Iliad and The Odyssey . It has been several years since he last read them, and Virgil indulges in a much-needed respite pouring over the pages. 

In the next few weeks, he drafts up a premise for the first two books, before tossing it to the fire with contempt. Something feels wrong – something is missing. 

An evening several days later finds Virgil at his desk again, fresh from a trip to the countryside. While not giving him any formidable inspiration for his poem, the stillness of it all never fails to calm Virgil’s mind. Relaxed, he rereads Octavian’s old letters to him, hoping a spark will light. When he reaches the end of the parchment, he sighs and places it back onto the stack of paper that has passed his eyes and failed to provide. 

Virgil takes the next sheet of parchment, eyes beginning to scan the words automatically, before he slaps it down with a loud thwack. At the hearth, his servant jumps, dropping her embroidery, and Virgil mutters something in apology. 

His tongue cannot form much else, for the sight of the words petrifies him into a shameful stupor. His face brightens with a flush, and he tentatively lifts the parchment back up, eyes flitting across the words. His own script, sharp and uncharacteristically dishevelled, stares back at him. He remembers writing this letter – fueled by anger and jealousy, letting his pen tear over the parchment. So long ago, but the memory of that day is vivid as ever in his mind.

As Virgil reads over it, he finds his previous shame dissipating in favour of a rekindled fury, frustration aimed at one man only. 

And then, he feels something click. 

The piece falls into place. 

***

“I must say,” Octavian – newly Augustus, but Virgil is still getting used to the title – says as he thumbs through the excerpt Virgil has carefully penned. “This strong characterization is rather intriguing.” His golden eyes glace up at Virgil slyly. “Though not at all out of the norm.” 

“If that was supposed to be a compliment,” Virgil replies, “then your etiquette is getting rusty.” 

Octavian laughs, and his eyes crinkle at the corner with fondness. Virgil's heart thumps in his chest.

It is one of the rare days that they can spend alone, lounging upon the chairs and indulging in grapes and small sips of wine. 

Octavian places the parchment onto the table and focuses his gaze fully on Virgil. 

“So,” he begins. “Where did you get the idea for such a formidable female character?” 

Virgil fights the urge to shift under his gaze. “A poet's mind works in mysterious ways,” he says. “And I found myself quite inspired by the recent happenings in Africa.” 

“And Rome’s triumph over her is just as inevitable as in real life, yes?”

“Yes,” Virgil echoes. “Of course.” 

Cleopatra is the excuse he has formed for himself, allowing the woman to influence the characterisation of Dido enough to be convincing. From there, Virgil was able to have relative freedom with her character, and he did not hesitate to pool into it all of his frustrations, his pains, and, worst of all, his love. 

He did not doubt the power of Octavian’s mind, and was ever cautious not to make the parallels obvious. But parallels they were, nonetheless. 

“Virgil.” The softness with which Octavian speaks  his name in such private moments, turning them tender and vulnerable, never fails to make Virgil fall all over again. A hand caresses the back of his shoulders. “You look worn out. What weighs on you?” 

“Nothing,” Virgil lies. “Nothing at all.” 

***

Virgil is panting by the time he reaches the door to Octavian's quarters, out of breath from the seemingly endless stairs. He shoulders the door with little grace, stumbling inside the dimmed room. 

When Octavian had mentioned his ailment in their latest correspondence, Virgil had brushed it off as the man had said it was nothing to worry about. However, when there were no more letters for two weeks after that, Virgil sent a concerned note to Livia, who had confessed that her husband had become horribly, dangerously ill. 

Startling the man that had been tending to Octavian, Virgil walks up to his bedside. The servant bows and disappears immediately, as most had learned to do after a few accidental encounters. 

Octavian’s eyes are closed, his skin unusually pale and dulled. His hair looks like straw rather than golden thread. Virgil sits on the side of the bed, careful not to jostle the blankets, but Octavian’s lashes quiver regardless. He makes a soft noise of discomfort, shifting on the feather-stuffed mattress. 

One of his eyes crack open, revealing a weary streak of gold. His unfocused gaze drifts over Virgil, and he mumbles something under his breath. 

Virgil's chest aches. He reaches out a hand to brush the hair from Octavian’s forehead, hot to the touch from fever.  

“You idiot,” Virgil murmurs. “Why didn't you tell me it was this serious?”

“Virgil,” Octavian mumbles, still not quite seeing him. 

“I'm here,” Virgil replies in an instant. His hand moves to brush along the flushed skin of Octavian’s cheekbone. 

“I wanted to… walk along the field…” Octavian tries, seeming to get lost in the haze of his fever before he can finish the sentence. 

Virgil gently shushes him, but the man suddenly lifts out a hand from under the blanket, searching clumsily until Virgil interlocks their fingers. 

“You have to… stay with me,” Octavian says, with visible effort to keep focus on the delirious words. 

“Of course,” Virgil soothes, stroking his thumb along the rough skin of his knuckles. 

“Always,” Octavian breathes, eyes falling closed again. Virgil is surprised that he is determined enough to get the rest of the words out. “It has to be you. Promise me.”

Though Virgil does not know exactly what he's promising, does not even know if Octavian is aware he is speaking at all, there is nothing, nothing in Jove's world that he could ever deny this man. 

“I promise. When you get better, we can go walk out on the fields. I'll be at your side.”

He isn't even sure the other heard him, but it matters little. Octavian seems calmed, breathing more evenly now. 

“I promise,” he whispers, brushing the hair back from his forehead again.

Virgil calls the servant back into the room to press cold cloths to Octavian’s forehead. Livia and Camilla follow behind, hand in hand, sharing a look of concern.

Virgil can barely pay them any heed. Desperately, he sends his thoughts to Apollo. Virgil’s favoured god, and Octavian’s, too. The master of Virgil’s craft, and the very god whose mercy they is needed at this moment. 

It is too soon for Augustus to die. 

***

Perhaps Apollo does favour Virgil. Maybe the deity could see something in that tragic, hopeless love the poet harbours deep in the crevice of his heart. Apollo is, after all, a romantic. 

Word of Octavian’s recovery reaches Virgil by word of mouth faster than by letter, as news spreads of the latest senate meeting, during which the consul was finally in attendance. 

Virgil feels a weight lift from his heart, and pays exemplary heed to Apollo’s shrine for the next several weeks. His poetry flows easier now, and he spends hours waxing more of it in his courtyard, asking for feedback from anyone he can – servants, friends, acquaintances. 

His meetings with Octavian are few, but when they do occur, Virgil savours every moment. He wonders how many of them are left. After all, this tender peace they have cultivated by simply foregoing certain topics cannot last them forever. 

He is working on the second draft when he finally yields to Octavian’s pestering and reads him several of the books. Virgil never had love for public speech, so, to Livia and Camilla’s dismay, Octavian chases them out of the room. He spends an hour in a chair by the flames of the hearth, golden eyes low and focused only on Virgil as the latter attempts a presentable narration. 

Virgil chose his best books for that reading, which included the fourth. It’s a risk as much as it is a challenge. 

While he recites the story of queen Dido, his eyes trail Octavian’s reaction carefully. His eyes are proficient, attuned to the man’s finest facial movements. Octavian prefers to conceal his reactions – make them as small as possible – but even with his skill, Virgil has spent too much time observing him to be fooled by such tactics. 

He picks out the briefest flickers of recognition in Octavian’s eyes as he reads Dido’s speech. A glimpse of pain. 

This is the only way they will ever talk about it. The only way they can acknowledge it without having everything they’ve built crumble into dust. 

Virgil knows that Octavian has realised. Neither of them say anything, and after Virgil concludes the last stanza of book six, Octavian stands and wraps Virgil’s fragile frame into his arms. 

There is nothing Virgil can do to help it. 

***

It is one of their scheduled meetings. The ‘official’ kind, to give them an opportunity to meet and discuss Virgil’s progress on his commission. These, at least, are consistent. 

The beginnings of autumn swirl with the promise of rain, which Virgil can smell in the atmosphere as he tramps up the stairs of Octavian’s summer villa. The man will be relocating back to his estate once the weather takes a turn, for which Virgil cannot wait. It will shorten the distance of his travel significantly. 

Livia and Camilla are lounging inside, heads bent close together as they titter over some inside joke. Livia spots him first, lifting a hand in a languid wave. 

“Virgil,” she sings. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, dear. How have you been faring?” 

“The weather has certainly dampened things, but I am well,” Virgil says. He has grown fond of this woman in his years of knowing her. Her personality and aspirations are forces to be reckoned with, and she has a mind sharper than Camilla’s eyes. 

“You should join us for dinner again sometime,” Livia continues, patting her hand absently over Camilla’s hair. “ Without that menace of a consul to sour the mood with military talk. I must update you on the gossip of the senate.”

“I would love to hear all about it,” Virgil admits honestly. “But I fear I am late. Is he in the courtyard?”

“There is a guest with him,” Camilla answers offhandedly, leaning back into Livia’s touch. The two immediately forget about his presence, eagerly returning to their hushed conversation.

Smiling at the women fondly, Virgil starts towards the courtyard entrance. He does not have to wonder who can so casually stroll into the home of Augustus Caesar without an appointed time, so he is not surprised to step out onto the veranda and see Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa. 

He is surprised, however, by the fact that Octavian is resting atop the man’s lap. He is also surprised by the tender, loving way Octvian’s fingers caress the man’s cheek. 

Virgil is not a confrontational man. He dislikes seeing people upset, and prefers to pour his own grievances into poetry rather than fiery words. Before he had written his latest work, his reaction likely would have remained the same as before: a silent retreat, a myriad of emotions that lead to passion bled onto paper. 

But Virgil has always preached the merit of the human emotional experience, and having written such a vivid and tragic character, he cannot help the feeling of empowerment that flows into his veins now. 

A poet's words originate, after all, from their very own soul. And if Virgil has managed to write a character with whom he resonates so deeply, he must be strong enough to do what she could. 

Not taking his eyes off the pair, Virgil crosses his arms in a show of indifference.

“Octavian,” he says, voice surprisingly level. 

Both men’s eyes dart to where he leans against the pillar. Octavian’s eyes are immediately calculating, taking him in with medical precision. 

Virgil knows he has surprised him – Octavian had not been the only one avoiding the elephant in the room, and he must be wondering what has changed. 

“Marcus,” Virgil continues, inclining his head. 

With grace, Octavian rises from atop Agrippa and walks to Virgil, slowly, which betrays his caution. It almost makes Virgil laugh – how the movement is reminiscent of a man approaching a wild dog. 

“Virgil,” Octavian says. “My apologies – I must have mistaken the time. Shall we–”

“No,” Virgil cuts in, calmly. “I think we shall not. Why don’t we just sit and talk about it here, with your esteemed guest?”

The venom in his voice does not go unnoticed, and Octavian opens his mouth, before carefully closing it again. “Virgil,” he tries. “Let's be civil about this.”

“Am I not being civil?” Virgil asks. “I rather think it is your friend here who lacks in manners. His foregone greeting has not gone unnoticed.”

“Virgil.” Octavian’s voice is firmer now. “Stop this.” 

Virgil scoffs. He may be taking inspiration from Dido, but unlike her, he will not beg any longer. For the past two decades, he has been doing nothing but begging. 

“So you, of all people, are allowed to come to me, reaching for my heart over and over, seizing from me promises to ensure that I can never escape your clutches, your web of lies and cheats and manipulations.” Virgil narrows his eyes, and he knows the pain and hatred are starchly visible in their depths. “Do not think me a fool, Octavian. There is nothing you can ask of me now. I am here only to say my piece.”

“Virgil, you cannot just–”

“Oh? And what is stopping me? What has ever held me back from leaving you but my own self? Don’t make me laugh,” Virgil aims a seething glance at Agrippa, relishing his widened eyes before focusing back on Octavian. “My words are wasted on a scoundrel like you, who has no loyalty for anything but his country.”

“Listen to me, I–”

“Shut up,” Virgil snaps, breathing hard. He has never spoken words so harsh to one he had loved so gently. “Your rank and position do not apply to matters that concern my heart. I have no obligation to indulge your excuses.” 

With a sweep of his cloak, he turns to retreat down the corridor. His exit is followed only by a tense, painful silence. 

“Virgil–” Camilla tries, both her and Livia having risen from their seat. He gives the word no acknowledgement, and the door slams.

Outside, Virgil is met with one drop, then two. An ominous rumble, and the sky is cleaved open by Jove himself. 

The downpour is nothing compared to Virgil’s tears.

***

Augustus Caesar has an ear and an eye in every room – or so the rumours say. 

They must have held merit, however, because as Virgil finishes planning a stealthy, tactical retreat to Greece, he hears word that the consul has already somehow found his way there. 

By gods, it's inconvenient, but Virgil does not back down. Greece will be a welcome change nonetheless, and he can simply go out of his way to avoid the man. 

The sailing wears him out, rubs him thinner than he probably ever has been. Ships were never really his forte. The water beneath the vessel, however, is as beautiful and calm as ever. He spends the days admiring it, letting it soothe the ache inside his ribs. 

He makes small edits to his manuscript here and there, but the real rewrite will have to wait until he is home, filled with inspiration of foreign beauty. Dido, he decides, has served her purpose. The parallel to himself, to his own helpless and hopeless love, has aided his escape from the very same. He does not need any more reminders. She will be wiped from the finished piece, replaced with other beauties that do not reach so deeply into Virgil’s soul. 

Virgil had once told Octavian that his words were from the heart. From a poet’s to a reader’s. A most intimate touch. 

This would be his first ever poem devoid of such. It would be empty and soulless, built only to fulfilll Octavian’s intention. No one, and especially not that man, had the right to be privy to such a vulnerability any longer.

When he arrives on the lush Greek coasts, Virgil cannot help the sigh of relief. As a romantic, Virgil is able to appreciate the visual harmony of the Greek architecture much more than that of his home country. He dawdles away his time on the fields, the beaches, and in the cities, admiring the beauty of alien shores.

His peace, though, has never been destined for logevity. 

Virgil does not know how Octavian tracks him down, but when he hears the footsteps on the sand behind him, he does not have to turn. Too long he has known that particular tread. 

Virgil continues looking out to the sea. The groves in Greece are truly something to behold, with golden sand and warm winds encased in the privacy of stone. Octavian sits down next to him, far enough away that it would be considered rude for Virgil to move. 

“You’ve gotten paler,” the man murmurs, and Virgil feels a tick of annoyance. 

“All these months, and that’s all you can think to say?” Virgil asks. It has no bite to it – just weariness. “I grow tired of your games, Octavian. Leave me be.” 

“You were never a game,” Octavian says. “Though, I admit, I was foolish enough to make it seem as such.” 

Virgil stays silent. His mind cannot help recalling memories. That first conversation in the sedan. Octavian devouring his poetry. Their first kiss, innocent with the unknown. All of the shared, sultry glances. The tenderness It had never felt like a game to him. Maybe he was just as naive as Pollio had thought, all those years ago.

There is a moment of silence, nothing but the gush of waves.

“I never took you to walk out on the fields,” Virgil remembers vaguely. There isn’t much feeling behind the words. “I’m sorry.” 

“Fields are abundant in Greece,” Octavian suggests, and stands. 

Despite his best interests, Virgil takes the hand offered to him. 

“How is your poetry?” Octavian asks as they walk away from the soothing sound of the sea lapping at the sand. 

Virgil kicks a rock with his sandal. “Well,” he says. “I plan to rewrite the first four volumes when I get home. You probably don’t even remember them, so I doubt it will matter much. The important parts will stay the same.”

Octavian stops, and Virgil turns to look at him fully for the first time. 

He has grown older in the few short months they have spent apart. The tired lines around his eyes are more pronounced, and even though he commented on Virgil's palid complexion, Octavian himself looks akin to a ghost. 

“I remember every word you read me,” he says in apparent exasperation, as if this is a fact of the world that Virgil should have been privy to. 

“Well,” Virgil says. They have walked upon a farm, rolling fields of gold billowing in the breeze. Virgil steps into the wheat. “How am I to know what crosses your mind? You never tell me anything.” 

From the sound behind him, Virgil knows that Octavian has followed him into the golden stalks. “I tell you more than I tell anyone else,” the man retorts. 

Virgil barks out a laugh. “Really? I would’ve thought you talked the ear right off of your dear general’s head, with how cosy you two are.”

Behind him, Octavian stops. Virgil ceases his movement also, stagnant amidst the sea of billowing grain.

He hears the intake of breath behind him. “Virgil, listen. Marcus and I–”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“ No. ” There’s clumsy motion behind him, and then Octavian’s hands are on his shoulders, forcibly turning him around. “Listen to me.” He takes Virgil’s face into his hands. “I ask it now not as an Imperator, or a consul – not as Augustus Caesar.” 

It’s the glimmer of tears in his golden eyes that prevent Virgil’s mouth from opening. 

“I stand before you now as Octavian, and no one else. I need you to hear this from me,” Octavian swallows, “because I love you.”

They had never braved such words before. It had been too frightening, too large for the two of them. Even if what Virgil felt was love, he could never be sure that Octavian truly felt it in return. 

Virgil’s lips stutter over a small breath, eyes wide, all pretence of neutrality wiped away by one simple admission. He stays silent as Octavian continues. 

“What Marcus and I had was different. He is my best friend, and I love him.” The words sour Virgil’s stomach, but Octavian swiftly continues. “But he is not you. After you left I realised that I had vastly underappreciated what we had. I have let my ignorance lead me down the paths of what I thought I desired… but now, I understand that isn’t what I truly want.”

Virgil looks at him for a moment, then turns away. The tears trickle onto his cheeks out of view of Octavian’s desperately discerning gaze. 

“I gave my life to you,” Virgil says, quiet enough that his voice does not shake. “If you think I will be placated by a mere apology, you are more of a fool than I thought.” 

“Despite what you think, Virgil, you know my heart. Really, you do.” Octavian shifts his sandals in the grass. “I remember that promise. The one you indulged.”

Virgil swallows painfully. “You were delirious.”

“I was honest.” Octavian places one hand on Virgil’s shoulder, a fleeting touch. “I would like to be honest with you from now on. Forever and always.”

“You need to stop.” Virgil cannot help as his voice breaks. “Do not think me stupid enough to care. Leave.”

“Thank you for hearing me,” Octavian responds quietly. “Take care, Virgil. Don’t exert yourself.”

At Virgil’s lack of response, the sound of footsteps starts up again, and Octavian wades out of the golden sea. 

Virgil remains alone inside its turbulent depths. 

***

He knows that he will not make it off the ship. 

Beneath the keel, the water is calm, swaying the vessel gently to and fro. 

Through the haze of his fever, Virgil vaguely yearns to see those blue depths one final time. A servant sits at his side, but at this point Virgil cannot conjure enough effort to tell who in particular it is. All he knows is that, even in his last moments, all he can see before him is Octavian’s face. 

“Burn it,” he croaks, and the figure at his side leans down to catch his words. 

“Burn what?” They ask, and Virgil barely makes out the words. 

“The poem. Burn it all. The world does not need to know that I…” He trails off, and finds it surprisingly peaceful – the way that the world fills with darkness. He breathes out, and its as if the air in his lungs contained a tremendous amount of weight – expelled from his body now, he feels a freedom akin to flying. 

***

Virgil does not haunt the living realm for long. His spectre follows the tides of the sea until he reaches Italy, where in the same way, he flows down the rivers of crowds until he comes to his old estate. 

There’s surprisingly little to do as a spirit, other than stay close to the body you once inhabited. He watches the servants grieving, watches friends and acquaintances come and go and offer condolences. In the end, he sits out in his courtyard amidst the lush plant life, at peace with the melancholy.

When a weight appears in his pocket, and Virgil’s fingers extract a coin, he knows that funeral rites have proceeded. He has enough time to wonder if Octavian has sailed back to bear it witness, before a tug at his core prompts him into movement. 

Guided by the forces of the divine, he sinks into the world beneath the earth. 

The cavern gapes, dark, but not unpleasantly so. It is lit sporadically by glowing cracks embedded in the ashen stones. There is a line of spirits at the shore of a gushing river, black as the stones on which it rushes. Virgil joins the line on some innate instinct, but as he watches a boat sail out from the thick mist, something prompts him to step out of the queue. 

He watches carefully as a glowing soul steps up to offer a coin to the hooded figure on the vessel – Charron, if Virgil’s memory serves. Charron takes the golden piece and motions for the spectre to get onto the boat. Virgil glances down at his own coin, flipping it over in his fingers. The gold reminds him of a pair of eyes, intensified by the low light of a candle. 

Yes, he recalls it now. There is a promise that Virgil has failed to keep. Despite the hurt, the betrayal he still feels, in death the truest of his feelings overtakes all others. Virgil is not someone who goes back on his word. Virgil is someone who, in spite of everything, continues to love.

If he has already broken his promise in the world above, then let this world beneath be different.

Decidedly, he walks away from the line of souls to a less populated part of the shore. The water of the Styx licks up the stones, running fast along her bed. Virgil sits down on a rock by the waterside. 

And he waits.

***

Time passes strangely in the underworld. 

When Virgil’s eyes catch a flash of gold, the world seems to slow down, seconds trickling into hours. And then he would focus his gaze onto a soul that was decidedly not Octavian, and the flow of time wheeled swiftly on. 

He is surprised when a familiar spectre makes an appearance in the line leading up to the river. Virgil does not move, but Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa’s keen eyes still catch sight of him. 

“You’re waiting for him, aren’t you?” The man asks, having disembarked from the queue and trodden up to Virgil’s rock. He sits opposite him, folding his phantom hands into his lap. 

Virgil only nodds. 

“I do not know what he told you,” Agrippa continues, staring into the distance. 

“Nothing,” Virgil says. 

Agrippa blinks at him. 

“What?” Virgil asks. “What did he tell you ?” 

“Everything.”

“Oh.”

Agrippa looks at him, eyes suddenly sharp with feeling. “He told me everything that was going on between the two of you. When we were together, it was as if you were all he could think about. Besides the politics, of course.”

“Of course,” Virgil agrees, cracking a smile. 

“He always asked me for advice,” Agrippa continues. “What would Virgil like on his birthday, should I get this quill or that for him, I wonder if Virgil would like this, and so on.” 

“And it did not upset you?” Virgil inquires. 

“Of course, it did.” Agrippa sighs. “We were in love, Virgil. I fell for him just as you did, and I was certain he shared the sentiment. It was… passionate, between us. The thrill of a blazing fire, at times. But then, in those tender moments when the fire went out, there seemed to be… little I could do.”

Virgil frowns. “You were his best friend.” 

“Of course. But… this was different. I do not know how to explain it. Perhaps,” Agrippa sighs again. “Perhaps if we had known better, we both would have broken it off long ago.”

“Don’t say things just to comfort me,” Virgil mutters. 

“I’m not. He was always more perceptive than me when it came to matters of the heart. More honest, too. After your fight, he came to me and told me that from then on, I was to be his best friend. Nothing more.” 

Virgil is thoroughly stunned, and it must show on his face because Agrippa laughs. 

“We were stupid. But he realised, in the end.” Agrippa looks at him, and it’s a painful thing. “He didn’t even get to say goodbye.” 

Virgil feels his eyes well with tears. “How is he doing?” 

“Well enough.” Agrippa shrugs. “He’s thrown himself fully into politics.” 

Virgil lets out a listless breath. “It’s not out of character. Though, I do wish Fate were not so cruel to him.”

Agrippa gazes out at the river, and Virgil sees some of that love – broken and defeated – surge into his eyes as he stares into the distance. “I, as well. I wish there was a way to tell him that, despite everything, you continue to wait for him.”

“You can wait with me, if you’d like.”

Agrippa stands and offers Virgil a small, delicate smile. “He and I were too similar. Impatient, headstrong, chasing forward and not caring to look behind. I see it now – I’ve seen it always. I was just too selfish to acknowledge it.” 

Virgil waits for him to carry on, and after a small breath, Agrippa does.

“We were not destined to be together,” he says. “Not like you and him were.” 

Virgil watches Agrippa retreat down the stones, and when the boat is pushed from the shore, Marcus waves at him. With a smile, Virgil returns the gesture. 

How long he waits after that is anyone’s guess. The tides of the Styx rise and ebb, just like the tides of the people. Not once does Virgil consider getting on the boat and leaving. He finds himself, in fact, rather content. 

He has always liked water, and the sound of it so close contains him in a state of calm. Several spirits flit up, curious of his purpose. He tells them, simply, that he is waiting. 

There are others like him, who move from the line to wait along the shores, staring out hopefully into the depths of the cave from which they came. Virgil’s stare is not hopeful. He does not hope to meet Octavian down here, ever. If the man was to live indefinately, or ascend straight to Olympus, Virgil would happily wait fruitlessly for eternity. 

Alas, Octavian is a mortal, and there is only so much leeway gifted to humans. 

Virgil’s waiting companions change often. Some of them give in after only a brief period, boarding the boat and leaving their loved ones behind in their impatience. Others are lucky enough to be reunited, boarding the boat hand in hand. 

None of them wait as long as Virgil waits. 

While he sits, he waxes poetry of all shapes and forms, inventing anything and everything that can keep his mind occupied. 

He thinks up stanzas about the countryside, the sea, the spring. But mostly, the tide of words forms around one name. 

Octavian. 

And when one day Virgil looks up from his rock, his gaze discerns a most familiar head of gold-threaded hair. His legs spring up of their own volition, and eyes the colour of the sun fix themselves to him. 

There is a smile on Octavian’s lips, and Virgil can only gasp in delight as his legs carry him forth. 

***

EXTRA:

“A shame he never read it to us.” Livia places the parchment down onto her lap. Camilla lifts her head from Livia’s shoulder where she had been listening, but mostly dozing. 

“I would have liked to hear it in his voice,” her love continues. “How he would have wanted it read.” 

“I’m sure you did a fine job.” Her reply is clouded with sleep, but the words are genuine. 

Livia shifts so that she is lying on the divan, pulling Camilla on top of her. The heat of Livia’s body instantly makes Camilla sigh, relaxing deeper into her embrace. 

“Camilla,” Livia scolds lightly, “did you even listen while I read? Honestly, your distaste for literature just cannot be helped.”

“I did listen.” Camilla sticks out her lip, a childish expression she would never think to offer anyone else. 

She hears an unconvinced huff of breath. “Well, then, what do you think about the character Dido?”

“Dido,” Camilla muses, “from the first book, and the fourth?” 

She can feel the mix of irritation and pride radiating from her lover, and chuckles as she rolls to the side to lie next to Livia. Facing her, Livia’s eyes are big, honey-brown. 

“I liked Dido,” Camilla decides. “I liked how she was written.”

“It seems like she’s inspired by Cleopatra,” Livia muses, helplessly intrigued by the conversation now. Camilla has always liked watching her mind turn – whether she is talking to Octavian about politics or hunching over a parchment, drafting laws and policies – it is a mesmerising vision. 

“... But?” Camilla prompts. With Livia, there is always a but. 

“But,” Livia agrees, “doesn’t it seem like there’s something… bigger? You knew Virgil – that sort of inspiration is too surface-level for such a deep character. It feels like–”

“Like he wrote a piece of his heart into her,” Camilla blurts, then flushes in astonishment. 

“Yes,” Livia says, blinking, “exactly that.”

Camilla is not a woman of words. She has always been, and always will be, a warrior of Diana. She knows the battlefield, the sharpness of the spear, the honesty that comes with it. Her life has never needed any more meaning. 

She does not know how she understands what Virgil intended when writing his poem. Perhaps, she had known him better than she previously thought. 

“Camilla?” Livia asks, peering at her. 

Camilla clears her throat. “I liked how he wrote me, too,” she fumbles. “I didn’t think he enjoyed the stories of my past that much. To think that they would inspire such an awesome character, named after me and all.”

“You truly were formidable,” Livia teases. “Though, please do not meet your end like that heroine.”

“Never.” Camilla takes Livia’s face into her hands. “I could never bring myself to leave your side.”

Livia smiles, bashful at the words. “It better be so,” she breathes, hugging her arms around Camilla’s shoulders and bringing their lips together. 

It is chaste and soft, fit for such a tender moment as this. 

When they part, Livia curls into her, and Camilla lays a kiss on the top of her head. 

“I grow weary of all the tragic deaths,” Livia sighs. She peeks up at Camilla with a smile. “Tell me a happier story. The one I like.”

“Don’t you grow bored?” Camilla asks, amused. 

“Of your tales? Never.” Livia’s eyes shine. “Come on. Tell me about the real Camilla’s greatest hour.”