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“You are not truly jealous of the Thracian, are you?” Pietros asked casually as Barca entered the room. Barca rolled his eyes; he had known he would pay for that one. He stepped forward to slip his arms around the boy’s waist from behind. Pietros relaxed against him, but continued to tend the birds without turning around.
“No. I know your mind too well—you need something more the size of a man.”
He bent down and nipped at the bare skin of Pietros’s shoulder, and then his neck. Pietros laughed and tilted his head back for an awkward kiss.
“There is no need to order me about, then,” he said, with just a hint of sauciness in the quirk of his lips. “Especially in front of Crixus, who knows already that you fall to obey my every whim. If you wish that to remain a secret in front of the other gladiators, then you may command me as Dominus does.”
“Impudent whelp,” Barca growled. He grinned fondly and pinched Pietros’s ass. The boy yelped with laughter, and Barca fell back to lounge on the bed. He watched with soft eyes as Pietros continued to lavish the birds with attention, smoothing their soft underfeathers and scratching dirt from their wings. “I… do not wish you to become attached to the Thracian,” he admitted finally in a low voice.
“Why not?”
“Dominus fights him hard in the pits. He will fall soon enough, and you have a soft heart. I would not see spirits dampened by his death.”
Pietros’s movements stilled, and he turned. He was upset already, Barca could tell. Of course he was. Pietros valued life far too much for anyone who lived in a ludus. He served beside Medicus whenever he was needed, tirelessly treating the deepest of wound and immune to the taint of blood or the heat of fever. During training, he kept a watchful eye on the gladiators, making note of those who needed water or tending to. It would have been amusing, that the youngest of them all had taken on the role of mother and caretaker.
But sometimes men died. And Pietros closed the eyes of each corpse, and said a prayer he had half-learned as a child, and sometimes cried at night in Barca’s arms and would not tell him why.
“You think he will die soon?” he asked quietly.
“I think he must. Or go mad. Give him respect for living so long, Pietros, but no pity. It will only do you harm.”
Pietros sighed and moved over to the bed. He lay down on top of Barca, carefully arranging knees and elbows so as not to cause injury, with his nose and lips nestled against Barca’s jaw. Barca slung one arm around his waist and ran his other hand soothingly up and down Pietros’s arm. His skin still held the heat of the sun, and his breath tickled at Barca’s chin.
“Every man in the ludus will die. You show no such concern for them.”
“All others die in the arena. You know the honor that comes with such a death. There is no glory in the pits.”
“Glory,” Pietros huffed. “I give no shit about glory.”
“You say such, as though you do not enjoy the prestige of fucking a gladiator,” Barca growled playfully in attempt to coax a smile. Pietros kissed his jaw.
“I do,” he murmured. “And I worry for you when you venture into danger.”
“Spartacus is to die in the pits,” Barca cut him off. “I am not to fight, only to protect Dominus from unruly crowd. I am to die an old man in my bed, and your arms.”
Pietros smiled at that, and one hand reached up to scratch light circles into Barca’s chest. His touch sent nerves tingling.
“Besides prestige, there are other advantages to fucking the Beast of Carthage that I value, you know,” he mused, his voice a low murmur.
“Yes?” Barca asked.
“Mm. Namely… fucking the Beast of Carthage.”
The boy propped himself up on his elbows and leaned down for a deep, thorough kiss that made Barca’s fingers tighten possessively, unconsciously, on his waist. He rolled them over, using his weight to press Pietros into the mattress.
“Then let us turn thoughts to other matters, and see your spirits rise.”