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“People will remember Caesar,” Licinius said, head tilted back, lazy with wine. “Not what you had for breakfast.”
They lay beneath the pergola, tablets abandoned, the scent of crushed thyme rising with the heat. A slave had just poured more Falernian. Insects droned in the dry air.
The poet smirked. “And people will eat breakfast long after Caesar’s bones are dust.”
Licinius raised his cup in mock salute. He beckoned the slave with two fingers. More wine. Always more wine. The boy’s hands trembled. Why was his friend so enamoured of things that slipped through the fingers? Poems scattered to birds. Sighs wasted on cruel mistresses. “Affection lacks substance,” he muttered.
Catullus grinned. The breeze stirred the leaves behind him. “So does air. And yet…” he gestured lightly.
Why was he always so charming, even drunk?
Licinius reached across the space between them, fingers brushing his wrist.
They leaned in, unthinking.
The kiss was brief but unhurried, tasting of wine. Less seduction than adoration. Soft at the edges. A laugh, lost between lips. Another kiss.
“I should know better than to drink in your garden,” Licinius said, voice low as they parted. “You’re infamous for a reason.”
“Did the rumours prove true?” his friend asked. “Will the matrons faint?”
A bee hovered at the rim of an abandoned poculum.
“You’re not lewd. Not exactly,” Licinius said. “You’re gentle. Playful. Sweet.”
Catullus rolled onto his side, stretching. Sunlight spilt across his collarbone. “You’re describing a kitten. Or a nymph. I could have you begging with just my mouth. I could take you ten times tonight, until dawn limps in and finds us wrecked.”
Licinius let out a low sound, more breath than a laugh. “And if I only want mildness?” he asked, watching wine-darkened lips. The slave boy tried to suppress a yawn. The peppery scent of thyme floated around them. Summer, and another day idled away.
“Then that’s what you get,” the poet said softly. “Anything, for a friend like you.”