Archive of Our Own

1. Ancient Rome

“Oh, wise one,”

The words tumble from his mouth as he slips onto one knee, helmet rough and heavy against his calloused palms. The marble floors are cool beneath his burning skin, the tall white columns casting him in a healthy dose of the sun's yellow glow. There’s the gentle trickle of clear water, coaxing its way into a faux moat, rushing around a large ornate statue of Mars. The temple is littered with the armament of great heroes, of fallen soldiers, of divine warriors. Shields and swords, polished to near perfection, propped up on the stand around the sculpture — offerings, pleas for a successful battle, a winning fight. 

“Mighty and swift Mars, from whom I draw my fortitude. Give unto me the strength to lead my people in a great, and glorious battle,” there lands a soft hand at the nape of his neck, the thumb rubbing hard at his pulse point. Yet he does not look up, pays it no mind, for he already knows who it belongs to. The keeper of the Temple, the priest of Mars, connecting him to the high heavens, his link to the Gods. “Grant me the strength to win this brutal fight, for the pride of Rome,” he pushes his helmet across the shining tile below him, further and further until it hits the water, soaking in the blessedness. His head remains hung low, eyes closed with a fervour, repeating the mantra within his mind. Mighty and swift Mars. Grant me the strength. Allow my warriors a quick and merciless war. Mighty and swift Mars. Grant the soldiers of your army the victory you so deserve. Mighty and swift Mars.

The thumb on his neck presses harsher still, and his eyes flutter open, drinking in the sunlight. It jumps tile to tile, shimmering as it catches the twinge of gold woven within the priest's sandals. The sparkle floods his vision, glazes over his pupils as the weight of the world crashes down upon his shoulders. Heavy are the hands that bear the sword, heavy is the heart that guides Rome to glory. 

“My child,” comes the gritted voice from above, the priest’s mouth drawing out the words, a slightly drunken slur. “Mars thanks you for your offerings, and he hears your cry,” the fingers sunk into his hair pull, and the warrior rises on strong legs. His stance radiates pride, the folly of a soldier. Yet he is undefeated in battle, commanding his cohort into war without hesitation. For he is the fearsome centurion Romulus, renowned and revered throughout the Empire for his quick hand and ruthlessness on the battlefield. He has the blessing of the Gods, the word of Olympus on his side. His very being is sewn with the cloth of Jupiter, his face sculpted from the rough touch of Mars, his body crafted from the fierce hands of Diana. “You are aware of the Gods favour,” the priest continues, his face stern and unmoving, gaze fixed ahead at Romulus’ helmet, soaking in the ancient water. He steps forward, the move practised and precise. There’s a quiet beat before he plunges his hands into the river, plucking the armour from the stream and clutching it between his palms. The metal cuts into his skin, leaving harsh lines and a small trail of bloodied red across each one, as he presents the item back to the soldier. “But do not be fooled by their kindness.”

Romulus scoffs, barking at the mere idea the Gods would dare trick their current favourite. “Dear, Flamen Marialis, you preach such sorrow. Today, the Roman army goes to war, and tomorrow, the Roman army shall return victorious.” He bows his head out of respect, retrieving his helmet from the priest, the metal miraculously dry. “We shall return before the morning sun rises over the city, and I, once more, shall be hailed a hero.” A smirk plays at his lips as he casts his head over his shoulder. “And the sacred spears shall be of assistance of course. We, as always, thank you prosperously for your presentation. Mars has our fate within his hands, and I am all too aware that he shall wisely support us.”

The priest glances from the statue, to the Temple’s entrance. The sky grows a deep orange colour as the sun begins to set, yet the city of Rome does not sleep. The citizens grow restless as they wait dutifully, prepared to send their brave warriors off into war. Dark shadows cast themselves along the marble floors, the evening sun hiding itself behind tall walls. Something within the priest quivers as he turns back to Romulus, his helmet, the sword hanging from his hip. “Perhaps you pay a visit to Fortuna as well,” he suggests, gesturing out the doorway, guiding the warrior on a new, short quest. “It can never be a bad thing to have her on your side.”

Romulus shakes his head, his curls bouncing against his strong jaw. “You worry too much, Janus,” his fingers tap along the sides of his helmet before he places it under one arm, holding it tight between his chest and bicep. The priest of Mars, so aptly named after a rather different God. “If I weren’t so certain of your loyalty, I would think you’re trying to sway me to two-faced-ness,” the soldier prompts, a grin growing across his cheeks. “I need not be drawn to another gateway.” 

Janus lays a gentle palm on Romulus’ arm, streaking a long smear of blood across the armour as he drags the hand down, rounding out at his elbow. There’s ecstatic cheering emanating from outside, a distant cry as the priest and the centurion make dangerous eye contact. “Perhaps Diana, she can always be of service. You are hunting your enemies, are you not?”

Silently, Romulus hangs his head, another cocky grin creeping onto his lips. There’s a glint of white teeth, the final glimmers of day catching his golden face, making him glow spectacularly. There is no doubt he adores the Gods, that they have him in their grasp. But Janus knows, he knows, the Gods love a plaything. They delight in a trial, in a twisted game. 

“My dear, my father named me in honour of the great founder of Rome for good reason,” Romulus boasts, puffing his chest. The name of his brother, however, does not grace his lips. It would surely taint his point if he brought about the part of the legend involving Remus. He’d much rather focus entirely on his own grandeur.

He takes his other hand and coats his thumb in the small droplets of blood, swiping it across the centurion's forehead. He pulls the man’s face towards him, pressing a firm kiss to each temple, his lips dry against the skin. “Fight with honour, and bravery. And return safe once more, Romulus. You are, as ever, in my prayers.”

“Dearest, Janus,” Romulus returns, his voice low and gravelled, that irresistible smile rife with smugness. “I shall see you before the next sunset, and we shall indulge in another great feast. The Gods would never betray me.”

Something twists hard within Janus’ gut, a feeling he can’t shake, a fever he can’t sweat away. His fingers drop from the centurion's hair, falling limp by his sides as he bows his head and gestures towards the extravagant doorway. “Then I wish you luck, Romulus. May the Gods be ever in your favour.”

“They always are,” Romulus calls over his shoulder as he exits, placing his helmet firmly over his head and throwing his arms wide to the awaiting crowd. There’s a blast of cheering, a long chuckle from the warrior as he descends the stairs, leaving Janus alone in the Temple.

“Oh Mars,” he prays, “please, protect that man.”

Alas, Mars does not listen. And Romulus is carried back to Rome in his chariot, stripped of his armour and shield, preparations for the hero’s burial already in motion.

And Rome weeps, for the Gods show no mercy.

2. Knights

Janus stands in his rubbled kitchen, staring up at the night sky. Scorched earth, such a pathetic, needlessly cruel tactic. While he can admire the cunningness, the ability to use an easy route, he would’ve greatly preferred if the fire hadn’t captured his land. (Though he was almost certainly the target of the inferno, the village usually pillaged is over two miles away, and that’s the closest homes to his own.) He’s all too aware of the nobility's growing resentment for him, and that his survival of the pointed attack will only aid in their hatred — but he wasn’t going to take death lying down. He wasn’t about to roll over and present his soft spots, his weak underbelly and allow them to spear straight through them. If he was going out, it would be his own decision, with his head held high.

A sane man would flee the embered abode, a rational thinker would run from the ruins in a desperate attempt for safety. Janus is neither sane, nor rational. He cares not for the actions of a common man, for Janus is no common man. 

He glances around the charred remains of where his thatched cottage once stood proud, fingers trailing off the ashy foundation rocks, the sharp spikes of splintered support beams. He moves with a practiced elegance, a quiet dance. He’s had the layout of his home memorised for some time now, and though the house is gone, his path remains the same. Swaying into what was once a makeshift bedroom/study, he scans the forgotten walls, eyes tracing the charred remains. The back wall is mostly intact, a little marred from the once raging flames, coated in a thin layer of soot — but standing. 

A wicked grin spreads across his features as Janus’ fingers curl around the long handle of his shepherd's cane, removing it from its usual spot leaning against said wall. The black cane is heavy in his hand, yet he tosses it up effortlessly, revelling in its sturdiness. The crest is a shimmering gold, utterly untouched, still shining in the pale, cold glow of the moon. His smile only widens, eyes lighting up as he hums, tapping the cane on the ground, watching as the sparks fly from the bottom as he does. Everything’s still in working order then. Marvellous. 

There’s a gentle clop of hooves in the distance, far away now, but rapidly approaching. Janus can hear their incessant, monotonous thumping against the grass, the vibrations racing through the dirt and clambering up his calves. He tightens his grip around his crook, stock still, waiting for the pulse of more — but no more comes. The racing remains singular, one horse, one man, speedily making their way towards Janus’ collapsing refuge. It’s in the trees, heading his way.

He pulls his silks harsher around his body, tugging on them hard as he taps his cane. Once, twice… The clothing begins to morph, cloaking his form as he hunches over. It’s a quick blur, the sparks fly from his cane once more, and as he crouches over his knees, his clothes follow. They create the impression of a poorer man, a peasant dressed only in dirtied rags. An old shepherd, scavenging through the wreckage. It’s a wonderful disguise, if he does say so himself. (And he does, he’s rather accomplished in the realm of the supernatural.)

Hooves clatter across the grass, as it crosses the threshold of alive to scorched and dead. They skid to a shattering stop, cantering up on hind legs as the man atop calls out a calming cry, petting down the animal’s mane. He slides off with a pathetic jingle, chainmail screeching against the metal spurs. His feet land in the ashed dirt, clearing his throat.

Janus feigns shock, throwing his head back from where he’d been pretending to prod at charred remains with the tip of his cane, using the curve to pointlessly move burned pieces of paper about. His rags successfully cover his forehead, hide his eyes, as his mouth falls open. 

“You!” The knight points an accusatory finger, his sword swinging recklessly by his side. He leaves it rather unguarded. “What know you of the sorcerer who resides here?”

Stuttering, Janus falls to his knees, bowing his head. Always put on a show. He doesn’t study the people in the nearby village for nothing. Doesn’t saunter around their market stalls for camaraderie or trade. It’s purely educational. “O-oh, sir!” He clutches the crook in both hands, one halfway up the handle, the other gripping the hook with a white knuckled fist. “I know nothing of sorcery! I apologise, my Lord. I was- I came to see what remained.” He admits, guilt deceptively worn into his voice, which quivers. 

The knight doesn’t seem impressed, running his hand along the coat of arms draped on top of his chainmail. “Useless,” he mutters, glancing back at his white horse, who remains rooted to the spot, sniffing the air. “Are you aware of any escape? Did you see this coven of evil and witchcraft as it went aflame?”

“Yes, Sire,” Janus continues staring at the ground, his knees aching on the uncomfortable dirt-wood mixture. He’s practically kneeling on sawdust, the fragments digging deep into his flesh. He hisses at the sting, praying the knight hasn’t noted the sound. “I saw no man leave.”

“Ah,” the knight looks around, carefully scanning his surroundings. “What we are discussing, is no man. This is a demon. A witch. A master of the dark arts.”

Janus has to stop himself from scoffing. Demon is a bit far. Witch? Fairly accurate, he can accept that. Master of the dark arts? Now that, he likes. Rather than huffing at the misconception, he merely allows the smirk to split on his face, a small chuckle weaselling its way past his lips as he tilts his head up. 

“This is no laughing matter, good sir! This is a matter of life and death! Did you see anything strange? A cat, a rodent? I’ve heard on good authority that this minion of the devil has been known to transform into a snake. He is the very cause of the original sin, so you will forgive me for not seeing the humour!” The knight declares, and it’s only when Janus studies his face that he recognises him. 

Sir Roman. 

This is not his first run in with the knight. A skilled swordsman with a tenacious loyalty to king and country — dead set on ridding their kingdom of witchcraft and evil. They’ve had a few encounters before now, Janus always escaping by the skin of his teeth. He’s rather shocked that the sight of his shepherd's crook hadn’t sent Roman reeling, spinning through old memories. He turns the cane in his palms, wide grin triggering a flash of recognition through Roman’s bright eyes. His hand begins to move, starts to reach for his sword, hovering above the sheath. 

“I am no minion of the devil, Sire,” Janus boasts, rising from the ashes, tugging the ragged hood down to reveal his face. “It is I, and I alone, that I conduct my work for,” he taps the cane off the ground in warning, watching the jolt of fear that courses through Roman’s veins as he takes a large step back, bracing himself. Janus notes how his fingers begin to pull at his sword, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he hums, rubbing his palm down the hook. 

The thing is, Janus is not a fighter. He’s not a rough-and-tumble, brute force kind of guy. He can fire a few warning shots, cast a couple defensive spells, but in the end he’ll always make a break for it. Yes, he wouldn’t run from his rubbled home, he wasn’t a coward in that sense. But in a battle of strength, he knows he won’t win. He’s a trickster, above all. His fighting words rarely amount to any show of muscle, merely the bark that’s so often followed by the scamper. 

Roman narrows his eyes, gripping the hilt of his sword in a firm grasp and unleashing it from his hip. His stance is wide and solid, arms strong from years of training and battle. He presents the blade forwards with a jab, and Janus slinks out of the way, angling the hook of his cane towards the knight. En guarde. “Stay and fight,” Roman threatens.

“Oh, I’d really rather not,” Janus hums, dodging another slash. They could go on like this forever — Roman too proud to break his knight's promise, Janus too lithe to be hit by an attack. “How about I offer you a deal instead?”

“I don’t make deals with the devil,” Roman spits, taking a dangerous step forward. The base of Janus’ cane hovers just an inch from the ground, and Roman can’t help but fear what the next tap would entail. He’s heard the stories, come face to face with the sorcerer on a few occasions. He’s heard tale of Janus’ spells, of the havoc he’s wreaked upon neighbouring towns. He’s been privy to the ideas of dragons, of black magic, of people dropping down dead, or crops failing. What he doesn’t know, is that really none of that had anything to do with Janus. No one really knows what he does. (Really, it’s whatever serves him best. In contrast to making the last wheat harvest fail, he’s why they so frequently prosper. How is he meant to feed himself or his spell bottles without a sufficient supply of high quality grain?)

“You’re making a big mistake, Roman,” Janus hums, skirting backwards as the tip of the sword catches against his clothing, tearing a piece of his long tunic away. “Anything you want, come on,” he flexes his fingers in a come hither motion, and come closer Roman does. He’s tempting, convincing and irresistible, and dear Lord he begs Roman won’t resist. Come on, man, just say what you want. Anything, and Janus can grant it. Just let him keep his life, allow him the peace to rebuild his home. At least let him gather the remains of his belongings before kicking him to the curb! 

“Jesus Christ!” He squeals, high and frightened as the sword comes swinging down, intent on connecting with his skull. Okay, enough talking, enough verbal trickery, it’s time to go. 

It’s a swift, scared movement as Janus slams his cane down, the sparks exploding as he practically disappears from view. Roman’s horse bucks up, whinnying loudly as it slams its front hooves down over and over. The knight swings his sword uselessly at the air, scowling. “That blasted snake,” he mutters. 

He spends a couple of minutes combing the area, as his stallion continues to thump the ground, perhaps spooked by a mouse. Roman’s fruitless attempts leave him empty handed, and with a heavy sigh he returns to his horse, petting down its long face in an attempt to calm him down. “Come now, let us leave. He’s as good as dead anyway,” he hums. Perhaps his blade had sliced straight through the trickster, it wasn’t like he was full human anyway (at least in Roman’s mind.) Maybe he’d popped out of existence upon death. Disintegrated into a puff of smoke. That’s what he’ll tell the king at least. It sounds like something that would happen to a witch. 

What Roman doesn’t see as his horse trots back into the woods, is the yellow and black snake, hidden in the thick foliage of an oak tree, watching his back as he leaves.

3. 1980’s

Roman fumbles to turn off his television with a grimace. 

He’s been in the same position for a few hours now, laid out like a prince across his couch, languidly eating grapes and shouting obscenities at the politicians cursing his screen. How people elected Reagan, he’ll never know. But they’re stuck with him for now. His tiny apartment is packed with belongings, draped with elegant curtains, framed with photos and posters across every wall. His couch is ornate, a red velvet fitting of someone as royal as him. He can’t help himself, he’s always had an extravagant taste. He’s not sure how his mother hadn’t figured out he was gay by now. She probably doesn’t want to see it.

What is he doing, spending his precious day off work stretched across his sofa, alone in New York? He should be hitting the town, skirting down to some sketchy dive bar and revelling in the attention he receives. But the thought just… isn’t that appealing. Ever since his aloof neighbour moved into the next door unit, he’s found it rather difficult to focus on anything else. He’d seen the man out on his balcony a few times, tending to strange looking plants and avoiding any sort of socialisation. 

In all honesty, Roman was trying to work out if the man was also queer. 

It’s a dangerous question to have.

His curtains are still parted, and from where he rests along his elegant sofa, he can see part of his neighbours balcony too. When a shadow casts along the ground, he struggles to his feet, stumbling towards the glass sliding door. Behind him, his coffee table is littered with trinkets and an ashtray that he doesn’t even use, it’s purely decorative. He tugs at the neck of his white tank top, fixing his rumpled shorts and combing a hand through his hair before shimmying outside as casually as he can. 

When he glances to his right, he spots the man kneeling by a strange, spiralling plant, pouring water into the soil. The man turns his gaze up, his head tilting and Roman smiles at him silently. The man is wearing a black beanie and yellow gardening gloves, a large birthmark covering the majority of the left side of his face. He doesn’t smile, just raises an eyebrow after sweeping his gaze over Roman, and turns back to his plants. 

“Hey,” Roman challenges a small wave, looking down at the bustling street below. Women dash past, strollers in front of them, and men stroll, ears pressed to phones. Roman can’t help but wonder where he fits into the crowd. He supposes he doesn’t really. Not with this crowd anyway. 

The man doesn’t respond, lips pressing into a thin line. 

“I'm Roman,” he tries again, leaning on the railing, basking in the warm evening sun. It's probably an hour before it'll begin to set, and Roman always likes getting his daily dose of vitamin D. 

There's still no reply, the neighbour dusting his gloves off as he stands, beginning to walk away already.

“What's your name?” Roman calls, as the man disappears back into his house, closing the curtains behind him. He huffs, “rude.”

Roman decides to remain on his balcony for a bit, drinking in the sight of busy people below. He creates stories for them in his head, fabricating tales of hospital visits, of chasing after long lost lovers in the street. It's an easy pass time, and before he knows it, the sun is setting. There's a rustle and a metallic screech as the neighbouring door slides open, a familiar figure emerging slowly into the cooling air.

“Janus,” the man finally speaks, his eyes hazy and cold. They rake over Roman’s bare arms, over his neck and his face. He feels oddly naked, more scientific than intimate. It's as though his body is being torn apart, dissected and examined.

“Pardon?” Roman glances over his shoulder. He'd since taken refuge at his small circular table, relaxed in one of the metal chairs. His balcony is just as elaborate as the interior, decorated as much as he could. He's a big fan of red, of gold, of anything regal and expensive looking.

“You asked my name, it's Janus,” the man, Janus, rolls his eyes as he answers, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. Roman has to stifle a laugh, who does this guy think he is? His personality is sour, his only saving grace is the fact that he’s cute.

“Welcome to the building,” Roman challenges a smile, still attempting basic politeness. Are you gay? is the question hanging off his tongue, but he can't ask that, can he? 

Janus’ eyes narrow again, coming up to the side railing, folding his arms on top, leaning precariously. 

“It's a nice place, yeah?” Roman clears his throat, why is this guy making everything so awkward?

“Oh yes, it's gorgeous,” Janus rubs his fingers together, peeling a hand up to his ear as he does. He sounds gay, if that's not too rude. There's something in his drawl, in the way he holds himself. Roman shouldn't assume, but he does. Sue him.

He blinks slowly, sarcasm? Right? Great, another tick in the jackass box for his new neighbour. Is this guy going to make everything a problem? “So… where are you from?”

“Florida,” Janus replies dumbly, no messing about.

“Me too!” Roman rocks in his seat, kicking one leg over the other. “Isn't that cool?”

“Mmm, I've never met another Floridian before! So exciting!” 

This time it's Roman's turn to roll his eyes, huffing. Rude! “What's your deal?” He huffs, sinking into his chair further.

He hears Janus laugh, probably at him, still craning over the railing. When Roman finally looks back at him, he notices that the man has changed. From his previous buttoned shirt into a heavy looking sweater and jeans. It's not that cold, surely? “Weird pick up line,” Janus prods, a sickly smug smirk painted across his cheeks.

“That was not a pick up line,” Roman hisses, defensive, “if I was trying to hit on you, I’d have a much better line.”

That seems to stun Janus into silence. Perhaps he'd been trying to work out the same things about his neighbour as Roman was. 

There's a pause.

Then Janus coughs into his fist, and nudges his plant pot with foot, nudging it out of the shade into the quickly fading sunlight. “It’s a corkscrew albuca,” Janus answers the question before it slips out of Roman’s mouth, “they’re also called a frizzle sizzle.”

“Frizzle sizzle?”

“Neat, huh?” There’s a smile, a genuine smile, playing at Janus’ lips. So he likes plants. Good to know. (Why that’s good to know, Roman can’t tell.) 

“I prefer zinnias,” he hums, gesturing to the hanging plant pots he has dotted along the far away railing, each flower planted in either an alternating red or white metal pot. 

Janus hums, nodding sincerely. “Representing love and loyalty, lasting affection,” he lists, twirling his wrist in the air. There’s a slight pink flush that creeps onto his cheeks as he finishes, seemingly embarrassed by his knowledge. But Roman just bobs his head intently.

“You know a lot about flowers then?” He tilts his head, maybe this new neighbour is an okay guy. And he’s becoming queerer by the second — what kind of straight man in the Reagan era is this into plants?

Janus shows his teeth in a wide white smile, and something flashes across Roman’s vision, something akin to golden sandals, a grand Temple. He shakes his head as he does, focusing his mind, trying his best to avoid wandering. He often lets his imagination run wild, closing his eyes to dreams of himself as a great warrior, leading legendary cities into battle. But the thoughts are always blurry around the edges, the faces not quite clear, the dialogue muffled or whispered. He always strains his ears, stares intently, yet the picture never clears. 

“Oh no, I hate them,” Janus mocks as he gestures around his balcony, utterly coated in flora. He clears his throat, “yeah, I know a lot. Just always had this keen interest, y’know? My mother used to say I must have some lost magic in my DNA or something. She always told me stories about descending from warlocks — or whatever else. Just fun little fairy tales,” he smiles sadly at the memory. “Though, it’s not like she talks to me anymore,” the sentence is punctuated with a half-hearted laugh, a single burst that shakes his chest.

Roman tilts his head sorrowfully, but he understands. “That’s shit,” he muses, tilting his head back, “the magic stuff is radical though, I wish I had cool ancestors.”

“With a name like Roman, you surely do,” Janus comments, a small nod accompanying his words. There’s something softer in his gaze now.

Roman muses over this, rocking in his seat once more.

“Do you prefer coffee or tea?”

The question comes out of nowhere, though monotone, there’s something more woven into the sentence. 

“What?” Roman finally stands from his chair, sauntering over to face Janus directly, hands on his hips as he stops proudly at the railing.

“Coffee… or tea? So I can have a pot on for when you come round,” Janus smiles, his teeth catching in the orange sunset.

Roman thinks for a second, studying the man's face. 

“Tea.”

“Perfect.”

4. 2009

Blip bloop! Blip bloop! Blip bloop!

His laptop hums out the constant music of the Skype calling sound, the beeps and tones becoming a near biweekly constant in his life now. The fan whirs, the computer hot against his lap, his bed warm beneath his body. Chequered sheets pulled over just his socked feet, room illuminated only by his lamp. It’s rapidly approaching one in the morning in California, the air still a certain stuffy heat as the summer comes to its blazing peak. And yet, here he sits, patiently waiting for his brother to pick up the damn call, so they can have their catch up.

They’d never really been close, perhaps as kids — but most twins are. As they’d grown into preteens, and eventually young adults, the distance between them had stretched. Spread into arms length, into grossed-out looks, into pointed insults and pathetic pranks. They were two stark opposites, maybe overlapping more than they assumed, but still, that childhood wonderment that kept them sewn together had faded into a dull thread and snipped fibres. Now, that the distance was physical, it seemed to have dragged them back together — albeit originally unwillingly. 

Roman quite clearly remembers the phone call with their father, where he’d pleaded for the two of them to attempt a semblance of a relationship, promising they’d regret it if they didn’t. And Roman knew if his father was begging, then it was a serious request. So, the monthly phone conversations, which became fortnightly Skype calls, which had evolved into a twice-a-week gossip session, conducted from their dorm rooms. 

He’d tried to get Remus on webcam much earlier in the day, but the man had insisted he was busy and to try again in the evening. The evening for Florida, was much later in California, yet begrudgingly Roman had agreed, huffing the whole time.

Finally the screen clicks, and Remus’ boisterous voice explodes through his weak speakers.

“He-y... ey…” The expected glitching occurs, his voice stammering as his arms jolt around the frame. But his wide smile remains, his mustuache beginning to grow in properly, hair still a rats nest. Roman still doesn’t understand why he chose to dye such a choppy part of his hair silver, or why he straightened it so ferociously. 

“Hi,” Roman drags it out, waving politely, glancing around the screen. It’s certainly Remus’ dorm, given the Dead Kennedy’s poster behind him. It’s clear he’s perched on the edge of his bed, as Roman can see his sheets, and can also see the knee of someone else, slumped in the corner. “How’ve you been?”

“Amazing!” Remus explodes, his connection stabilising. His laptop begins to slip down his knees, and he grasps the back of the device, tugging it back up. In the slide, Roman catches a blurred, hazy view of the figure in the background. A boy with pushed back hair, tied into a messy ponytail. He’s gripping a Blackberry in his left hand, a glass of what seems to be wine in the other. Between his lips he’s chewing what might be an eyeliner pen, and Roman spies a small pocket mirror balanced precariously on his knee. 

Before he can say anything, Remus is shoving his face up to the camera, baring his teeth wildly. “I went down the beach, did you know seaweed straight from the sand tastes bad!” 

Roman grimaces, Remus hasn’t changed a bit. “I could’ve guessed that, bud,” he hums, craning his neck as though he can move to see the other boy better that way. There’s something about him that’s so strangely familiar, perhaps it’s the birthmark, or the golden highlights threaded into his hair — or maybe it’s the way he holds things, with such careful precision. 

“Yeah, well, I found out for myself! Scientific method! And it was gross, so I will be trying again. In case it was a bad piece,” Remus shuffles back on his bed, the scratching of fabric audible through the crappy laptop speakers. 

“I’m begging you not to do that,” Roman rubs over his face, why does he agree to these again? Brotherly love? Family pressures?

“Thank god someone else has some sort of sense,” comes a muffled mutter off screen, and Roman raises an eyebrow.

“Who is that?” He questions, glaring at Remus through the screen.

“My roommate!” Remus joyfully explains, turning his computer on his lap to face the other man, who glances to the screen and quickly covers his face with his phone, eyeliner falling from his mouth. “This is Janus!”

“Oh yes, Remus. I totally look my best and this is absolutely how I wanted to meet your brother. Great introduction, babe,” ‘Janus’ spits out sarcastically, not moving his chunky mobile from his face. His chin is sloped, shoulders thin and curved. Roman notes his long hair, the clearly home-dyed blonde streaks that stripe through the chestnut brown. 

“Babe?” Roman perks up, forehead creasing with surprise. It’s not like he doesn’t know Remus is queer, they were the gay twins in high school. Maybe that ridicule was what started pulling them apart. 

Remus cackles, his hand coming into frame as he attempts to pull at Janus’ phone, eventually the man caves, dropping his hand to shoot Remus a deadly stare. “He’s like… my wife,” he concludes, making kissy noises behind the camera, and Janus sticks his tongue out. The childish movement captures Roman’s attention, blinking slowly as he takes it all. Remus didn’t tell him his roommate was kinda… cute? Hot? Roman grapples for the right words, swallowing the thick lump in his throat. But he’d clearly told Janus about him, maybe Janus had always been in the room for their Skype calls. 

He watches, holding back a laugh as Janus grabs Remus’ pillow and tosses it harshly at his head. The laptop clatters off his knees and onto the floor, a frequent occurrence for the boy really.

“You’re picking that up!” Remus’ voice echoes. “You break it, you buy it!”

There’s no inciting argument, just a sigh of defeat as Janus comes back into frame, computer in hands. Whilst the picture isn’t perfect, not very clear at all really, the two get a good look at each other. Roman just smiles and waves, and Janus mumbles an unamused ‘hey’, placing the laptop back on Remus’ legs. Perhaps it’s wrong of Roman to ask Remus to give the camera back to his attractive friend — which is why Roman doesn’t ask. 

And when the sound of the dorm room door closing echoes over the webcam, Roman tries his very hardest to mask his disappointment. 

He can’t shake that feeling. That aching familiarity swells within his chest, even when the call is over, and the time creeps ever closer to the witching hour. Witches. Something about that sparks a flame deep in his stomach, a dull fire that licks at his spine, that begs for examination. But Roman doesn’t even know where to begin. He’s never seen Janus before, but it feels as though he’s known him his entire life. Something green spirals through his mind, tangles thick roots around his lungs, sprouts flowering buds behind his eyelids. The smell of earl grey floods his nostrils as he presses his face into his pillow.

When he closes his eyes he sees that explosion of sparks once more, a hooked cane sweeping past his pupils, a defensive hiss floating from ear to ear. He groans into the fabric, flipping onto his back in order to stare at the ceiling. Thundering hooves clatter against his skull, the shriek of metal against metal startling him. It’s as though he’s falling, tumbling through a deep black void. His vision clouds in the slow approach of black clouds, of soot and ash that digs deep claws into his flesh.

The void expands as he tumbles downwards, stomach lurching with each jerking plummet. When he finally lands, his spine cracks against harsh marble, rather than the soft mattress he’d been expecting. Is he coming down with something? He tugs his comforter further up his chest, tucking it beneath his chin as he raises a quaking palm to his forehead, pressing to feel for fever. The back of his hand is met, not with sweaty skin, but with the cold metallic burn of metal. It’s freezing, but not wet. And should it not be wet? After being cast into a moat, should it not come out sparkling with water? 

But Roman had never done that.

He feels insistent fingers on his neck, pressing hard into his pulse, a wine soaked drawl curling around the shell of his ear, so sweet, yet so concerned. He can’t make out the words, can’t hear a thing. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing it all away. What is happening? He must be ill.

Eventually, the strong pull of sleep washes over his exhausted body, the void washing away, taking the Temple, and the horse, and the tea, and the eyeliner with it. His muscles untense, and the memories slip away. 

And Roman does not dream that night.

5. The Future

This is not his usual scene. 

Janus considers himself… a little classier than this, typically. It’s not like he’s pretentious (he is) or egotistical (he most certainly is), but a hole in the wall, Irish pub (whose owners cannot be Irish, given the frightfully poor decor) is not his usual first choice. He prefers to frequent wine bars, perhaps indulging himself with a fruity cocktail now and again. But for some reason, on this warm Floridian Saturday night, he finds himself nursing his second glass of white wine, on a bar stool in a dimly lit pub, surrounded by soccer fans and tourists yelling at TV screens. 

He can’t even conjure up why he chose here. He’d gotten off the bus from work a stop too early by mistake, and rather than wandering home to relax in silken pyjamas, watching Real Housewives, he’d instead taken up refuge here. It reeks of bad beer, of cheap cigarettes, and of the most disgusting body odour he’s ever had the displeasure of smelling. Yet he doesn’t leave. There’s something stopping him, preventing his legs from picking his body up and walking him out the door. As though cased from the waist down in cement, or barricaded into place.

The wine is sour against his tongue, sliding back and giving way to a horrific aftertaste. Honestly, why is he here? The wine is poor, the air is dense, the televisions are all way too loud, and the atmosphere is uneasy.

Someone pulls up the stool next to him, and Janus flicks his eyes to the side. He hadn’t heard the footsteps approaching, lost in thought. The gentleman next to him orders a cider, and when it lands in front of him, Janus notices how his gaze flutters. The man gives him a curious glance, then a second one, turning his head quickly.

And oh.

He doesn’t seem like a regular customer here. No offence to the other tenants of course, but he is radiant. Something about him simply sparkles. There’s a certain glow to his skin, a gentle glitter in his pupils. His thick eyebrows and strong jaw, his arched nose. It’s compelling. And when he speaks, Janus is drawn from his thick fog, pulled into the man’s stratosphere instantaneously.

“Do I know you?”

The question is drawn out on a whisper, a gasp of breath that shouldn’t reach Janus’ ears over the roaring customers, yet does. And he finds he wonders that too. The man just looks so familiar. Yet he can’t quite put his finger on it. There’s something so strangely comforting about his golden tan, something heroic about him. There’s something terrifying in his gaze, as though he’s about to hold a great sword above his head, swinging down. There’s something compelling in his stance, the way he holds his shoulders, rocking in place on his stool. And there’s something boyish in his features, that drills deep into Janus’ chest.

“I… I don’t think so,” he finally manages to mumble back, sipping his wine. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be,” the man responds, pint glass in hand. “I just thought I recognised you, is all. Though, I’m certain if we had met I’d have no trouble remembering someone as beautiful as you.” 

Is that all this was? Some terrible attempt at flirtation? A shitty pick up in a local bar? 

Then why did Janus feel that draw? Why did he feel so close, yet so far? Why does he feel like he’s known this man all this life? Why does he feel like he’s seen this man for centuries?

Janus scoffs in turn. He should be offended at the cheap line, and most often he would be, yet a heat still floods his cheeks. He’ll blame the alcohol for now. 

“You flatter me. I assure you, Roman, we have never met,” he exhales slowly over his glass, placing it back down on the dull wood of the bar. It’s chipped and cracked in places, looking almost burned. The smell of ash fills Janus’ nose all at once, the feeling of a blade zipping past his side making his nerves go haywire.

The man beside him tenses. “What did you just-? How do you know my name?”

Janus freezes, then cocks his head. “I… I don’t?”

“You called me Roman, that’s my name.”

“Did I?” He truly has no memory of this, hair flopping against his forehead as he bobs his head no. The man, Roman, takes a long drink from his glass, eyebrows furrowed. “Lucky guess?” 

Roman glances at him from the rim of his cider, studying him. That birthmark. 

“Let me guess yours, and we’ll be even,” he suggests, although he’s not certain why. Janus nods his silent agreement, the last of his wine sliding easily down his throat. It’s sweet. How strange. He can feel Roman’s dark eyes baring into his soul, digging into his flesh, sinking into his heart. They tear him apart, seeing him from the inside out, reading every hidden thought within his mind. And then: “Janus?”

He stops, stunned. What the fuck? No, really. What the fuck? It’s not as though he has a normal name. Hell, he’s never heard of another Janus. 

“I- yes? How did you guess that? And first try?” 

Roman pauses, “lucky guess?” His words are quiet, confused. Something within Janus’ chest twists. 

A sane man would flee, a rational thinker would run.

Janus is neither sane nor rational. 

Why is he feeling so much deja vu? 

The silence stretches. 

“I’m so confused,” Janus finally speaks, “do we know each other?”

“There’s no way,” Roman shakes his head. He chugs back the last half of his cider, smacking his lips. He looks over Janus again, “do we?”

“I don’t remember ever meeting you.”

“But you know my name.”

“And you know mine,” Janus points out, finger wagging in the space between them. Their glasses lay empty by their sides. 

Roman hums, “call it even?” He extends his right hand, and Janus awkwardly shakes it. Roman is quiet for a long minute, “do you have a favourite plant?”

“Frizzle sizzle,” Janus responds immediately, and Roman’s face flashes with recognition. “Coffee or tea?”

“Tea,” Roman replies, just as automatically as Janus had. It’s a strange back and forth — yet every time Janus answers a question, it’s as though Roman already knew the answer, his brain echoing the words at him as the man talks. It’s so weird. He knows this man, knows things about him, knows his name, knows his favourite plant. There’s this itch in his fingers, an electricity whirring through his veins, and it begs to touch.

“If you could be any animal what would you be?” Roman asks, rather than vocalising any of these feelings.

“A snake,” Janus hums, as he orders another glass of wine, suddenly quite enjoying the flavour. “Do you believe in past lives?”

“Of course I do.” The conversation took a turn, or perhaps it’s more akin to an interrogation, a back and forth question-and-answer. And yet again, Roman’s brain hisses snake at him as Janus vocalises his response, yet this time it adds a yellow and black one. Hiding in an oak tree. Horses. Swords. And he finds he can’t silence it. “I was definitely a Roman soldier, probably where the name comes from. Romulus, into Roman.”

Janus nods as though this makes perfect sense, although distantly in his mind he knows it isn’t. It’s all so weird, why does this feel so normal? “Died in battle, probably.” Mighty and swift Mars. Grant me the fortitude… Mighty and swift Mars. 

Roman hums, “exactly. Maybe a knight, at some point.”

“Such heroic lives,” Janus muses, “I think I was an alternative kid in the late 2000’s, maybe a trickster or sorcerer at some point,” he rubs his nails as a fresh glass of wine is placed in front of him. He flushes when Roman offers his card over, demanding it be added to his tab. “Thank you.”

“I was definitely a random gay man at some point, maybe the 70’s, 80’s?” Roman continues, rubbing his hands together by his knees. “Do you think we knew each other in past lives?”

Janus thinks it over, his eyes catching Roman’s face. 

Flashes.

A helmet. A body on a chariot.

A sword. Chain armour.

A white tank top. A pot of tea. 

A dark room. A shaky webcam.

“Probably not.”

Roman’s face falls as he nods slowly.

“The world is so big, you know? What are the chances we kept running into each other? And then for it to happen again now?”

“You’re probably right, yeah.”

A priest and a warrior.

A knight and a sorcerer.

A zinnia and a corkscrew albuca.

A shaky webcam and an eyeliner.

A glass of wine and a cider.

“Do you have… a number? To call?” 

“Do I have a phone?” Roman raises an eyebrow, watching Janus’ face screw up.

“I’m on my third glass, cut me some slack,” he rolls his eyes, an unimpressed expression befalling his face. The way his face contorts has sparks flying from Roman’s lungs.

“I have a phone number yes,” Roman smirks, “do you want it?”

“I’d love it.”

Roman slides Janus’ phone from his hand where he’d been brandishing it, and Roman hadn’t even seen him slip it from his pocket. The man is lithe, sly, in a way. Maybe he has some connection to the Gods. Maybe he's just a little magical. Maybe he’s just a guy who likes strange plants. Maybe he sits in his room and does his eyeliner and calls his friends. 

Tomorrow, maybe he’ll give Roman a call.