Work Text:
The stillness was the worst part. The way in which the room fell cold, marble walls and mosaic floors closing in on him, choking him. The hum of voices from outside the palace was all that was there to comfort him, even if they wanted his head. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, no– why had this happened? He was frozen in place, body trembling with the aftershock. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t, he wanted to so badly, but he couldn’t. It was as if static were buzzing through his head, pulling him somewhere– anywhere but here. Somewhere to mask the truth, something to cling onto so that he would not have to face the realisation of.. this.
“Brother..” He spoke, his voice nothing but a strained whisper. The husk that lay before him had long since been his brother. A pool of red enveloped his robes, tarnishing the floor beneath him and glinting in the low light. He would not move, even when Caracalla nudged him; or what was left of him. The body just lay there, still, unresponsive. He wished it would move. Talk to him, tell him it was going to be alright, pull him from this living nightmare. Caracalla had always looked into his brother's eyes to break the spells. Where were those eyes now? No face to look at, no hope to cling to. A shell of the tyrant the man had once been, crumpled into a pile of nothing.
Had he done this? He hadn’t meant to.
This feeling was unshakeable, he couldn’t place it. He had not felt something this deep before. Not ever. It wound through his veins, pulling at his skin, clouding his lungs, his heart, his throat. The hair on the back of his neck was pricked, arms dotted with goosebumps. His mind could not seem to rewind back just five minutes. A lump formed in his throat as he trailed a bejewelled hand along Geta’s spoiled robes. It did not have the comforting effect it had held for all of these years. He could feel his lower lip twitch, the hard floor digging into his knees as he turned his head to face the presence he had felt behind him, only to be met with nothing. He could feel his eyes wetting. He did not know what to do– he did not have anybody to tell him what to do. The power he held, it had always satisfied him. But now? As he knelt here, stained with the blood of his twin, the lonely walls of the palace suffocated him. It felt so different now. What was left of his mind could not even attempt to navigate his feelings.
What now?
There was nothing left for him here. The commotion in the streets was deafening as he pulled himself to his feet, hand slipping down the marble pillar he’d used to steady himself. Blue eyes bore into his palm, eyeing the crimson wetness that coated the skin. The skin on his face felt tight, hair sticking to his forehead from the very same substance. The smell was potent, clouding his senses. He felt sick, the nausea washing over him, tugging at his insides. If only his brother could tell him what to do. A pathetic mewl spilled from his lips as he staggered out of the room. His head was throbbing, limbs heavy as he dragged himself into the hallway. It felt as if he was watching himself from an outsider's perspective, manually forcing each leg ahead of the other. He paused once he’d left the room, feeling the eyes of the Praetorian guards dotted along the hallway on him as the blood dried, sticking to his clothes. Their silence only added to his nausea, but they wouldn't dare say a word to him. They knew better than to speak to him without having been spoken to. Still, he felt judged. The lack of speech was practically deafening. He winced, clamping his hands over his ears, cold blood soaking his hair. His own thoughts were too loud. He couldn’t stand them looking at him as he aimlessly traipsed through the hallway, blood-stained robes bunching at his feet. He almost lost his footing a few times, sharp irregular breaths huffing from his nose. It was as if he were five years old all over again. Short, stubby limbs and soft ginger locks. Just able to speak coherent sentences, yet already Rome’s beloved angel, alongside his brother. On the surface, at least. What lay in truth hurt to think about.
It may have been decades ago, and with his memory these days, it was hard to recall. But nothing would erase the image of his brother protecting him from their Father. He was taller, stronger, smarter. He always had been, but that didn’t make the blows any lighter. Caracalla had recollections of going to find his brother after these horrid incidents, seeing him curled up under their bed, snivelling. He would wrap his arms around him, and even after everything Geta had put himself through for his brother, he would love him just the same. Caracalla hadn’t understood back then; hadn’t understood that this would be the paving of their dynamic for years to come, and he barely understood it now. It wasn’t his fault that he was stunted, and it didn’t matter because Geta would walk him through his life.
Where was Geta now to walk him through this? To tell him what to do? The halls seemed to stretch on and on as he trudged through them. He’d better go to his chamber now. That seemed the only place there really was to go. He wanted Dondus, he wanted Geta, Macrinus– anyone, anyone to take care of him. His lower lip twitched as he felt the familiar feeling of hot tears begin to run down his rosy cheeks. His hands moved to his face in an attempt to wipe them away, but in turn only got blood in them, causing them to sting even more. His cries were pathetic. He’d never felt so outcast in the confines of his own palace.
His legs carried him to his bedroom, collapsing onto his bed with haste. He didn’t seem to notice how the blood that coated him was now staining the sheets beneath him. He buried his face into his pillow, breathing in as he let out choked sobs. The linen smelt of Geta, reminding him of the countless times his brother would have to comfort him back to sleep after he’d awoken in fear, seized by night terrors. He would stay with him until he drifted off again. These memories, once fond and warm, left a gaping pit in Caracalla’s chest now. He clutched the sheets until his knuckles turned white, smearing tears along his face as he turned to look off toward the door. He’d left it ajar in his rush, and through the webs of his tears he could see shadows passing back and forth throughout the halls.
“Geta..?” He sobbed out, voice thick with despair. There was no answer. The silence ate him alive, confusion weaving throughout him. He wanted to understand so badly, but no matter how hard he tried, he just could not remember. His brain equated to fog, nothing more, nothing less. His heart weighed heavy in his chest, threatening to shatter through his ribs. The sickly metallic smell of the blood was making him dizzy, but his mind and body were far too exhausted to rid himself of it. Besides, no amount of scrubbing would wash away the hurt. It was cemented into him now, that he could tell. It was not tender. It was rampant and harsh, tearing through him like a blade. All that called to him now was sleep. With his last stretch of consciousness, Caracalla idly hoped for a kind dream. With a reality this cruel, he would pray his subconscious had something soothing to offer.