Work Text:
The sun, perpetually weak in this Roman December, is entirely obscured by heavy, sodden clouds. Hadrian rules the Roman Empire, while Antinous is part of the emperor's personal retinue, a distinction that keeps him physically and emotionally closer to the aging man than any senator or general. He is more than just an attendant; he is a confidant and a companion, his presence an essential counterweight to the monumental burden of governing the known world. They are often found here, in the emperor’s private retreat—a large, sunless chamber lined with marble and heavy velvet, a space of temporary respite from the clamor of the Palatine Hill.
Antinous assists Hadrian with household chores in their often shared chambers, as Antinous is in love with the older man. Today, the chore involves reorganizing the scrolls stored in a cedar chest, a task usually relegated to slaves. Yet, Antinous is here, kneeling on the cold mosaic floor, carefully rolling up a brittle treatise on Dacian campaigns, while Hadrian sits nearby, meticulously sharpening a stylus with a small bronze knife. The air is warm from the hypocaust beneath the floor, thick with the scent of beeswax polish and old parchment. Antinous’s simple woolen tunic is the color of a stormy sky, but a ribbon tied around his wrist is a vibrant splash of cerulean blue, the same intense hue as his gaze when he steals a glance at the Emperor. The proximity is thrilling, the shared silence a language of its own.
He treasures every last moment together, including insipid chores. Every scrape of the bronze knife, every rustle of the parchment, is imprinted on his memory. He knows the pattern of Hadrian’s breathing when the man is deep in thought, the faint rasp of his beard against his tunic collar when he shifts his weight. This work is not glamorous; it is monotonous, dull, and utterly insignificant compared to the great dramas of the Empire. But it is theirs, a tiny, self-contained world where they are merely two men, one young and fiercely devoted, the other powerful and deeply beloved. It’s a slow, warm, cuddly feeling, knowing that for this moment, the ruler of Rome chooses to be with him, sharing this small domestic task.
After the chores are complete, the emperor rises, stretching slowly, his joints protesting the long session. He glances toward the door, where the sound of the persistent date weather—a cold, steady Roman drizzle—drifts through the antechamber. He is reaching for the heavy, hooded paenula draped over a bronze stand, a deep burgundy cloak meant for travel and inclement weather, when Antinous springs forward. The younger man is faster, his lithe body moving with sudden grace, securing the garment before the Emperor's fingers can grasp the wool. Rather than immediately help Hadrian pull his lovely coat onto the first arm, Antinous tosses the heavy wool over one shoulder, adjusting the hood to frame his dark curls, and looks at Hadrian with a mischievous, expectant light in his eyes. He is beautiful, impossibly so, in a way that makes the formality of their surroundings seem ridiculous.
"Num formosus videor?" he asks, his voice a low, playful challenge in the Latin of the court. Do I look handsome?
The Emperor’s eyes trace the line of Antinous’s jaw, the slight tilt of his head. He doesn't laugh, but the warmth in his expression is an overwhelming confession. He sees not an attendant, but the very soul he adores. "Mi anime, venusta es, sed tunicam illam mihi danda est." My soul, you are charming and beautiful, he affirms, the words tender and absolute, but that coat must be given to me.
The implication is clear: the demands of the Empire—the cold, the rain, the duties—call, and they require this man to be dressed as the Emperor, not as a playful vision in stolen wool. Antinous smiles and kisses his love softly. The playfulness melts away, replaced by a deep, sincere tenderness. He closes the distance between them, leaning in to press his lips against Hadrian’s, a lingering, warm seal of affection that acknowledges the request without diminishing the moment of vanity. It is a shared secret, a brief refusal of protocol for the sake of love.
The playful rebellion is over, and Antinous becomes the dutiful attendant again, lifting the heavy wool and guiding the Emperor’s arms into the sleeves. He straightens the fabric, adjusts the collar to shield Hadrian’s neck, and smooths the back of the cloak with steady hands. He lingers, savoring the final seconds of physical contact before the man must step out of this domestic bubble. He then collects the umbraculum, the large, oil-skin-covered Roman umbrella that rests in the corner, a practical shield against the relentless drizzle. He snaps it open with a familiar, mechanical click, the spokes radiating outward.
When Hadrian raises an eyebrow—a questioning, slightly weary gesture, acknowledging that an Emperor does not typically require an umbrella bearer—Antinous assures him, "Te protegam." The words are simple, firm, and contain a promise that extends far beyond a simple shield from the rain. I will protect you. It's a vow of loyalty, of devotion, of a love that wishes to intercept every harm, great or small, that the world might hurl at the ruler of Rome.
Hadrian just can't help but embrace and kiss his sweetheart once more. The formal constraints break completely. He leans down, pulling Antinous close, cloak and all, enveloping the younger man in a solid, warm, cuddly hug. His lips meet Antinous’s again, a kiss fueled by gratitude and an inescapable dependency. He draws strength from the boy’s fiercely protective love before he releases him, stepping toward the antechamber and the cerulean-grey gloom of the Roman street. Antinous is right beside him, holding the umbraculum high, ready to walk his love into the rain.