if its dark, look out

“No–” Your protest is weak and he can tell that it’s not sincere. “No, I should not– what if I accidentally suffocate you?”

The worry in your voice is so adoring that he has to laugh, his hands coming to rest on each of your thighs. “People bigger and stronger than you have tried to suffocate me and failed. I promise you, my death will not be a concern tonight.”

“Just imagine the stories they would tell!” He knows you’re half joking now as well and his thumb traces the familiar patterns into your skin as he stares up at you in the dim light of his bedroom. 

“What would they say? Do you think they would sing of the Vestal who murdered the General of Rome, merely by sitting on his face?” Acacius teases, his smirk never once wavering, even when you playfully hit his shoulder. “Come here. I want to test my theory. See if you truly are as sweet as that honeycake.”

He watches the resistance crumble in your eyes, replaced by urgency and he waits for the small nod that comes after just a few moments. Then, he grips your thighs harder and pulls you onto him, seating you straight on his face.

Your thighs frame his head and Acacius immediately feels his mind swimming with how close he is to your core, his tongue darting out and slipping through your heat in one long swipe, making you squirm above him. His words of praise and the small curses that escape his throat are lost between your legs, whispered and groaned into your body. Yours on the other hand? They’re getting louder by the second.

His nose rubs against the spot that he knows you love to have touched, making him wonder if the way you’re trembling is a pointer that he should pay it more attention while fucking you in the future. Because, and his dick twitches below his toga at the thought, he will be doing this again. He gets to do this now, now that he has made you his, that you both have allowed yourselves to give in.

“Acacius–” He can hear the tremble in your voice and feel it in your thighs, your form quivering on top of him and it only spurs him on more, making him double his efforts to eat you like a starving man. “They’ll hear–” You whine, sounding so close to letting go and he grunts into your heat, squeezing your thighs harder, trying to reassure you without needing words.

And a few moments later, when he feels your core clench and flutter around his lips, he knows he has succeeded. Acacius doesn’t let up, lapping up every last bit of wetness you are willing to give him, his breath coming in short, small pants.

Only when he feels you go soft around him he lets up, maneuvering you off him and onto the bed. And by the gods, you are a sight.

Flushed, with your hair unruly and your red and gold stola ridden up to your stomach, the fabric bunching around your middle. “As beautiful as the gods–” He hums, pressing himself against you. He can feel his own cock, rock-hard and waiting below his toga. But he wants to give you a moment to catch your breath.

“They must have heard–” You whimper, reaching out to pull him closer, the voices from the piazza still drifting into the room. Clearly the festivities have not yet ended. But Acacius can merely chuckle.

“We are not to be identified by our voices, Dulcissima. They think the General is having a jolly good time with some town wrench. Besides, there's many houses around the square. They can never quite tell which window the sounds come from.”

Your next whine is swallowed by Acacius as he gently presses his lips to yours, his right hand trailing down to find your heat again, the inside of your thighs smeared with your own juices. A sharp tug of jealousy fills him at the thought, knowing that more than anything he wants his own seed between your legs.

“Do you wish to sleep?” He hums instead, not wanting to push his luck. If the way you trembled and came so fast is any indication, this was a new kind of experience for you. Which shouldn't surprise him, really. But he still tends to forget that he needs to take it slow, needs to be careful with you. It still feels like the thing the air is heavy with is as easily breakable as the jugs in the temple. Like all it needs is one snap, one misstep and he’ll be standing in front of broken shards littering the floor. Only that he cannot order the potter to make a replacement of you.

“I feel like all I have been doing for weeks is sleep,” you hum back, one of your hands beginning to sneak up his leg, brushing over the dark hairs that decorate it. 

“You retired early,” Acacius agrees quietly, recalling the weeks on the road vividly. Even after he assigned Rusticus to you, you would excuse yourself as soon as was acceptable and retreat to your tent. Much to his dismay.

“I just told you. I have been sleeping a lot.” He listens to you repeat yourself and a small sigh escapes him, his mind wandering back to the night he did watch you sleep, the one where his brain tricked him into thinking he heard something, maybe just to give him a reason to check on you. He begins to wonder if he could get away with it tomorrow, sending a silent prayer to the gods to always wake him first so that he may look at you for a while before you stir.

“Dulcissima. Come here,” he whispers, pulling you in and you obey willingly, crawling beside him, both your bodies stretched out over the bed between the four posters. It only takes a few moments for Acacius to forget about his wish of seeing you in the morning, his mind and body too occupied with your night instead.

***

He is already awake when you open your eyes. Sun is filtering in through the curtains, the airy fabric moving in the seaside breeze that always seems to brush over Brundisium. The sounds of the night are gone, no more music or yelling drifting up to the villa. Your stola is laying beside the bed in a puddle, not unlike Acacius’s clothing next to it. Neither of you even entertained the idea of you returning to your own bed again. And the sheets are soft on your skin, warmth radiating from the man beside you who is just as naked under the covers as you are. Your leg is nestled between both of his, one of your arms splayed over his broad chest. Your bodies, so intertwined throughout the night, with no one and no fabric, not even a veil, tucked between you.

The birds are singing, replacing the songs of the townsfolk. And the glorious moment lasts all but ten seconds. Then, your head jerks up as heavy footsteps sound outside the door.

You feel Acacius tense beside you, evidently having noticed the same disturbance. With a few quick motions that almost startle you in efficiency this early in the morning, he slips out from under the covers beside you, shuffles his toga on and motions for you to stay hidden before stepping over to the wooden door. “Hello?”

He turns the lock, a foot placed firmly behind the door to keep it from opening too far. The angle allows you to stay hidden, even when Acacius isn't. And surely enough, it is a person you are certain he would like to send into the Colosseum for daring to interrupt your morning. “General,” Rusticus grunts, his rough voice so recognizable even when you cannot see him. “I wanted to inform you I will take up guard now.”

“Thank you, Rusticus, but that will not be necessary today.” You can almost hear the frown in the other man's voice, the silent protest at the orders so different from his usual ones. Then again, one thing you have learned about the man is that he does not ask too many questions. He requires a job description, and surely good payment, but he is a soldier through and through, willing to serve his General.

“What do you wish for me to do then?” He asks quietly and you swear you see a flicker of annoyance in Acacius’s eyes.

“Enjoy your freedom or whatever you do with your days off. I will stay with the Vestal. She enjoyed herself a bit too freely recently and wishes to go and say her prayers in the temples around town. Brundisium is fairly safe. We shall not have need for your protection until we leave port.” It is definitely an order, even if a rather vague one. And you can't feel like the slide at you is supposed to tell you something– something more than the fact that Acacius needs an excuse in front of Rusticus anyway.

You close your eyes again when you hear the door lock and listen to the soldiers' steps die down along the hallways while those of the General draw closer to the bed. It dips under his weight, the wood creaking slightly. A few moments later, an arm sneaks over your stomach, Acacius’s index finger drawing small circles around your naval. “Forgive the interruption.”

“Enjoyed myself a bit too freely, hm?” You mutter back, blinking up at him through tired eyes. “Is that what you would call last night?”

“I never said it was your fault,” he argues with a small chuckle, moving closer to you so that his body is once more flush against yours, his nose pressing into your scalp. “But I do think you may want to say some prayers after the things you let me do to you.”

An involuntary shiver runs through you at the memories and you know exactly what he means. It seems much harder to speak or even think about now that the sun is up and the streets will be bustling with the normal activity of the townsfolk and the travelers passing through. “What about your prayers, General?”

He smiles wearily at that. “I stopped praying many years ago. I do what I have to. What is expected.” You feel yourself grow sad at the prospect. It’s not like you haven’t suspected that his approach is slightly more practical than yours. Even as a priestess, you understand that prayers rarely win wars. But you still wish for him to be safe. And that means saying your prayers when needed.

“I will include you in mine,” you hum back and for a moment, he looks like he wants to protest. But then he just hums quietly and smoothes his hands over your bare skin. You think there has barely been a moment without his skin on yours since last night, like he is afraid that you will disappear from his side in a moment's notice.

“What do you wish to eat? Before we head out?” He cocks his head to the side as he stands again, the thin rays of morning light travelling over his body as he moves.

“I would love some fruit. Maybe some juice if there is any.” You pause for a moment. “I will put on my garments while you go downstairs, yes?”

You’re barely on your feet when Acacius growls softly, his palm cupping the curve of your ass. “I really prefer you without them, my lady.”

Only he could sound so polite and so dirty at the same time. You playfully roll your eyes at him, nudging his side in response before carefully tip-toeing out onto the landing. Not without Acacius stealing one or two more kisses before letting you go, though.

You don’t take long. You change into a white stola and let out an involuntary sigh as your gaze falls onto your veil, draped carefully over a chair in the corner. It sits heavy on your head when you descend the stairs a short while later, finding two young women already serving the first meal of the day, the large plate of fruit you requested sitting in front of Acacius. He doesn’t even try to hide the smile that spreads over his face as you lie down on the plush couch beside him. “Please, eat well. You will need your strength later.”

A giggle from the two servant girls drifts to you from the kitchen, though you’re not sure if it's in response to your conversation or something else. Surely they’d know not to giggle at the words of a General. “Are we going to the baths?” It is the only place you can think of that has a large enough body of water to swim in. But the tiny smirk on Acacius’s face immediately tells you that it is not the one he has in mind.

“Better,” he just muses and you for a moment, you wish he wasn’t this good at keeping secrets. But then you remind yourself you are one of them.

“Allow me.” He whispers, nudging you until you turn to face him instead of the nameless woman on the wall. He has put the wine onto the table beside the bed– and you find that he is holding something else, a package shaped like a small square that fits perfectly into the palm of his hand. “I know I have hurt you.”

“I already told you, you are forgiven,” you repeat quietly but you can tell he’s not satisfied with tha. Which, really, who would not be satisfied with the forgiveness of a Vestal so easily given?

“I wish for you to have this,” his eyes flicker back and forth between both of yours and you can tell he is nervous. “My hope is that it will show you where my … true intentions lie. Where they have been.”

You take the small parcel from him, the size of a small honeycake wrapped into brown, worn paper, held together with red string. Carefully, you begin to open the present, making sure to neatly unwrap it. Your mind is already going miles and miles an hour, wondering what exactly he can mean. You thought you knew where his priorities lied and it clearly was not you. Not fully, anyway.

The skillfully melted gold, that seems to lighten up the room with a dim glow the moment you unwrap it, makes your breath catch in your throat. So does the green stone that sits on the side of the bracelet.

But not because of their worth, even though you are sure they could not have come cheap. But because of where they are from.

The shop he found you in in Beneventum. You were holding this very bracelet when Acacius stormed in with panic in his eyes and hurried you back to the villa and into the confines of your new guard before you had a chance to protest. You still remember the tremble you thought you saw in his hands that day, when he left you to be in your room. And it raises the one question.

“You went back to buy it?” You whisper, only able to raise your gaze from the bracelet resting in your hand with immense willpower.

“The same day, yes.” He confirms quietly and now you understand why he wanted you to have this. Because it shows that he did care. “I meant to give it to you. I thought it may lighten your mood but when I came to the villa in the morning, you were nowhere to be found.”

“I was with Rusticus,” you quickly explain. “He allowed me to visit the temple to say my prayers.”

“Yes. I saw you return with him.”

It’s like reading a book you loved as a child after you’ve become older, after you’ve turned wiser. You let the morning pass through your mind once more. The temple, the old man with his cart, buying baked goods. Laughing with Rusticus on the way back to the villa. Of course that is the part that Acacius would have seen.

“Either way–” He starts again and you’ve been quiet long enough that you know Acacius has understood where your thoughts have gone. And his eager attempt to distract from them only solidifies your belief that you are right in thinking that he did not enjoy seeing you with the other man. “I meant to give it to you. But I was not sure how.”

“I have it now,” you offer weakly, a smile playing around your lips as you put the paper and string to the side and push the bracelet against your free hand.

“May I?” Acacius hums and you nod, stilling as he carefully takes the bracelet from you. One hand comes to steady your arm. “The woman refused to sell it to me at first. I think I came off a little … strong when I came into her shop.” With seemingly no effort, the gold slips over your knuckles and onto your arm, the cool metal sending a small shiver through your body.

“You were worried,” you defend him quietly, even though you know he is right. And you were livid. But that night, you imagined how you’d have felt if you had shown up to the villa to find him missing. You believe your reaction would have been similar. “You paid her handsomely, I hope.”

“More than.” Acacius nods but unlike yours, there is no joy in his voice. You’re not sure how or why but you can tell you have hit a nerve. You quirk an eyebrow in question and he sighs in response, unfastening the leather pouch he used to pay the lady earlier from his belt and throwing it for you to catch. You just barely manage to, your hands weighed down with how heavy it is. And when you loosen the string that holds it together and peek inside, you almost gasp.

“These are all–” You press out, taking one of the gold coins out to inspect it. “This is half a fortune, Acacius.”

You are no stranger to money, not in your position. It is something you have to understand, both for yourself and the many people the Vestals have business with. But this is … a lot, even for you.

“I do not care for the gold,” Acacius says quietly and you watch as he lowers himself onto the bed, propping his elbows up on his knees and brushing his hands over his face. “It is cursed.” It is just a whisper, one slipping between the fingers covering his face.

“Why?” You question softly, like you are scared he may take offense to your question.

“It is gold I get paid for sending young men to their deaths.” A sad smile plays around his lips. “Like I said. Cursed.”

You sigh as well, slowly padding over to him and getting on your knees in front of him. You reach for his hands, drawing them away from his face and into yours instead. “I do not believe in curses, my General.”

His smile changes, from sad to something you can’t quite name. “I know you said you did not wish for grace or gifts tonight,” Acacius hums, his eyes fixed on yours, his thumb stroking your fingers in the gentle motions you’ve become so accustomed to. “I am sorry I failed you on at least one of those accounts.”

“You did not fail me,” you whisper, bowing your head to press your lips against the back of his hand. You place a gentle kiss onto his skin and whisper your words against it, like they will travel into his body this way. “You are here now. That is what matters.”

You can tell he does not fully believe you but he nods anyway, his voice cracking slightly. “Come here, anaticula.” He pulls you up and into him so that you’re perched on his thigh, not unlike the way you were below the pavilion in his gardens so many moons and suns ago.

Acacius takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with air and with you, pressing his nose into your shoulder while his arm wraps around your waist to make sure you won’t fall. Slowly but surely, you find yourself able to relax, much more than you have in the last few weeks. Even when there has not been actual danger to your life, quite literally having no one to lean on has been rough.

“Have you been on a ship before?” He muses, posing the question without judgement. You shake your head, your right hand tracing the fine golden lines on his toga, those that form tiny leaves.

“No. But I have seen them in the colosseum. And at Ostia, of course.” You dimly remember visiting the port of Ostia a few times as a child, before you were chosen. But the visits were brief and while impressive, you were not too occupied with the ships lining up along the shore.

Acacius nods and you can almost see the thoughts swirling in his eyes. “We will leave in a few days time, when everything is prepared. These waters are not as dangerous but it is naive to think any waters can not be deadly if treaded the wrong way.”

“Well, I am sure it will be an interesting experience. It must be fascinating, seeing no land. Being so far away from everything.” In truth, you have been looking forward to this part of the journey, something that you are certain not many of your kind have gotten to witness.

“Beautiful and treacherous,” Acacius agrees quietly. “I assume you know how to swim?”

You can practically watch the surprise spreading over his face when you shake your head again. “No. It was not exactly on the curriculum for a Vestal. I used to step into the river, play on the bank. Then one time, I stepped too far in and the current took me.”

Acacius has tensed slightly below you and you think you feel his grip tighten even more at hearing your story. “And then?”

“And then my father was there. He did not even yell. He just pulled me out and carried me back to land.” It feels so far away, like it was a completely different lifetime and you realize that you haven't thought about that day in a long while. “After that, I never strayed very far from the bank. And then I was chosen and life changed.”

“Let me teach you,” he says suddenly and you frown, needing a few seconds to figure out what he means.

“Teach me to swim?” You echo to make sure you’ve understood him correctly. And he nods, like it is the most natural thing in the world for a Roman General to take a day off his duties to teach a priestess how to keep herself above water. “Our dancing may have gone undiscovered but I doubt a swimming lesson would.”

He laughs softly at that, a brown strand of hair falling in front of his face as Acacius shakes his head. “No. No, I do not intend to teach you here. But there is a place that would work.” The familiar concern is back in his eyes but you find that it doesn’t bother you as much anymore. Not if he is allowing you to help him soothe his worries.

“Very well. Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow,” Acacius hums in agreement, his eyes following you as you stand and step back from him, your form throwing a soft shadow into his direction, the windows to your back. His hand is still in yours, his arm outstretched so that you will not pull away.

“Is there anything else, my General?”

He almost growls at the way you address him, his fingers tightening around yours. “There is indeed.” His eyes seem to follow your curves once more. “I like how you think I would let you sleep in your own bed after tonight.”

You know very well that it is an empty threat, that Acacius would escort you back to your own bed yourself if you made it clear that was your wish. But the way he’s looking at you right now, combined with the idea of spending the night with him– it is almost too good to be true. “You consider it unsafe then, I take it?”

Your words are merely a breath spoken into the quiet room but you see the smirk that spreads over the mans face, more than ready to play the game you just started. “I do.” In one quick motion, he pulls you into him. Before you even know what has hit you, you’re straddling him while he sits on the edge of his bed, legs spread. “What if Rusticus decided to ask for another dance?”

His hand trails over your leg, fingers ghosting under the hem of your stola that has already ridden up quite a bit thanks to your position on top of the General. “You really hate his guts, don’t you?”

The hand on your thigh squeezes down at that and Acacius tuts softly. “No, I don’t. I just don’t like when others touch what is mine.”

A rush of warmth spreads through your body at his words, at his implication. For a moment, you consider if it’s nerves or if he’s being too much for you, especially after so many weeks of being apart from him. But then you feel your core clench around nothing and a frustrated whine escapes your throat, making you realize that it is not too much– it is not enough.

“I am yours?” You breathe, your hands wandering over his body, one cupping his cheek. Chocolate brown eyes watch you as he nods softly, his other hand cupping the curve of your ass.

“As far as I am concerned,” Acacius hums and you see him almost holding his breath at the question that follows. “Is that alright, dulce?”

“More than,” you agree immediately, leaning in to chase his lips. You don’t even have to. He meets you halfway, his mouth on yours in the blink of an eye. And it’s like all the worries, all the hardships fall off your shoulders when you are so close to him; when you have his hands on your skin and his lips on yours.

“Hold on–” Acacius rasps when you both break the kiss for a few moments and you withdraw reluctantly, wrapping your arms around his neck in silent protest to not let him leave. You hear him grunt at that and after a moment, you’re up in the air as he carries you through the room and to the windows. “Will you open one of these for me?”

You nod and do as told, extending one arm to the small piece of wood that keeps the windows closed at wish. A wave of cold air rushes in as soon as you do and with it the voices from the people below, some evidently still dancing around the piazza. “You enjoy hearing the sounds of the night?”

Acacius shifts you in his arms, shaking his head. “I will not deny that I do. But more than that–” He groans slightly as he lowers you back onto the bed, two arms caging you in on either side, his teeth scarping over that sensitive part of your ear. “I enjoy letting them hear you.”

Acacius forces himself to smile, not wanting to give Rusticus the satisfaction. He’s not sure if the man actually suspects him or if he is just being his usual loose-tongued self but either way, the idea of anyone else taking you for an evening stroll along the sea that includes honey cakes seems absurdly wrong.

“Oh, Rusticus!” The excitement in your voice is more than noticeably and you let go of Acacius to hurry over to the bags he placed off to the side earlier. “We bought some of those … figurine things.” Like a child showing its first drawing, you proudly hold up the woolen pieces, turning them in your hands as the man comes to a halt in front of you, nodding at the craftsmanship.

“They’re well worked. Why do you have three?” The small frown on his face makes Acacius certain that your new acquaintance does not know how deep your compassion actually runs.

“One for Acacius, one for me and this one–” You hold one of the male figurines out to him. “This is for you. I have to protect my protector, no?”

He wants to fucking scream.

The only reason Rusticus is your protector is because Acacius hired him. The only reason he guards your door or your tent is because Acacius ordered him there. It is the one thing he knows, maybe the only one he does. He protects the things he loves. At all costs.

The other man sends a short glance his way, taking the figurine from you and extending you his other hand. “If I may, my lady. A dance with your protector?”

You barely spare Acacius a look, instead putting the other figurines back and allowing Rusticus to lead you a few steps into the open space of the street. He watches on as foreign hands hover above your waist, like they have any right to be there. Like he has any right to touch you.

“That is close enough, Rusticus,” Acacius says sharply, prompting the man to look at him, a brow raised ever so slightly.

“Of course, General.” His voice, normally so gruff and worn, is so smooth that Acacius wonders if he’s had one too many of the honey cakes. You send him a silent glare, one that lets him know he may not have been as unapparent as he hoped to be.

He lasts exactly one song. During which he reaches for the wine and watches you dance with another man. Acacius recognizes the song, even if he’s not sure where he has heard it before. But he knows when it is close to ending and gathers up the remaining bags, stepping over to you and Rusticus.

“I will see the Lady to her quarters now. It is getting late,” he makes sure to send the dark-haired man another pointed look as the two of you step apart. “You will not be needed for the night. The villa is safe.”

“As you wish, General. Good night, my lady. It was an honor.” At least he’s smart enough not to argue.

You, on the other hand, look about ready to go to trial against Acacius for daring to interrupt your dance. “I do not–”

He doesn’t even let you get your point across. This is not a conversation he needs witnesses for, not Rusticus of all people anyhow. Acacius nudges your hand and coaxes you into following him up the stairs, past the people of the town still dancing and celebrating. “We can pass through here.”

He already has his hand on the small metal gate when you let out a hurried noise and shake your head. “Wait, we almost forgot.” Acacius stands still while you reach for the bag with the leftover honey cake and fumble with the pastry, the thick golden liquid running onto your fingers.

There is an altar set up at a crossroads only a short distance away and he watches as you hurry over, place the treat on it beside many others, bow your head and then return to his side.

The gate creaks slightly when he pushes it open, letting you both into the gardens of the villa. They’re arranged a bit below the height of the atrium so that the large windows loom above you to one side and the sea sits dark and quiet on the other, framed by a few large trees.

The noises of the people celebrating die down slightly as you round the corner, the small clearing sitting seemingly shut off from the rest of town. A quiet space that is used by whichever high-ranking officials may come through town and demand for some peace from the common folk.

Acacius watches you draw your shawl a bit tighter around yourself against the cold, a soft shiver running through your body. A few torches and the lights of the sky above are all that allow him to see your form illuminated in the faint light, shadows playing around you like a too large coat on a child in winter.

“We always seem to end up in gardens,” you say quietly and he can tell it’s supposed to be a joke but neither of you laugh. It doesn’t feel very funny.

“You have to be more careful,” Acacius states bluntly, ignoring your quip entirely. He doesn’t want to talk about his reaction, his jealousy, his need to protect you. So the offensive is the way to go. It’s the same way they capture the cities they land in.

“You’re impossible.” Your voice is only a whisper but one that is loaded with an entire array of emotions.

“I am trying,” he groans, shaking his head in disbelief. “I am trying to keep you safe and still let you see the town, I even bought you those stupid figurines–”

“They’re not stupid,” you respond defiantly, stepping toward him and building yourself up to your full height which still falls a bit short beside him. “They protect us. They protect me. And since you clearly care so much for my protection, I am surprised you did not have them hung up the moment we stepped foot into this town!”

“This is not about some woolen protection,” Acacius groans exasperatedly. It’s like he can feel something building up inside of him, threatening to spill all the secrets he’s been holding inside for weeks. To give him away with a slip of a tongue.

“Clearly. Because you would not drag me away like this when the night is far from over just because of some stupid figurines.” He watches you take a quick breath. “So what is it, then?”

“You cannot go around dancing with Rusticus,” Acacius finally says, his voice weak, his gaze tracing your face to try and find what emotions he can see there. “He was damn near touching you and, veil or not, that is deemed inappropriate for–” He shakes his head again. “For a number of reasons! He does not get to touch you–”

“What, because he’s not you?” You shoot back and he’s not sure if it’s the wine or your nature but he suddenly realizes you will not back down this time. “He doesn’t get to touch me?!” You ask again, more heatedly now.

And Acacius is tired. He’s tired of pretending. In front of his soldiers and the Emperors and Rusticus. He’s been playing this game all his life. He knows the rules, he knows how to stay inside the invisible lines. But they don’t apply when it comes to you.

He wants you safe. But he also wants to stop pretending with you. Because you have already crossed the lines together, arguably much more than you should have, but you did. And he knows you get him in a way only a handful people do. Maybe, just you do.

“Yes,” he whispers, his shoulders dropping slightly at his inner surrender.

“Yes, what?” Your features have arranged themselves into a frown, confusion filling them.

“He’s not me.”

Acacius sucks in a sharp breath as his hand flies up to pinch the bridge of his nose and he closes his eyes for a few moments, mentally testing the waters. Because he knows that he is about to dive in headfirst.

“You said people only see your veil. That you are a Vestal to them more than you are yourself.”

The change in the mood is noticeable and he watches you shift from one side to another as you nod slowly. “I did. They do.”

“And you took it off for me. Twice.” Acacius sighs, tracing your hair where the fabric usually covers it. “So if I were to ask the woman under the veil what she wants. If she will–” It takes him a few moments to find the right words and even then, he still cringes slightly, his cheeks tinged with pink. “If she will have me. What would she say?”

For a few moments, he thinks you will go back to yelling at him, back to cussing him out for daring to bring the topic up, for asking a question so bluntly. But instead, he watches your features go soft and your lips curling into a smile. And then, they’re on his.

He doesn’t give a damn that Rusticus or any other servant could be watching from behind the thick trees or the windows above you. All he cares about is his hands sneaking around your form, his calloused fingers brushing over the red stola that already leaves little to his imagination and his lips on yours.

Your bodies melt together just the way he remembered it, if not better. And when you pull back enough to catch some air, your noses rub against each other. Your voice is just a whisper, words that are meant solely for him. “She would say that it took you long enough.”

Acacius hums into the next kiss in agreement, not daring to argue. Hell, being apart from you while you were in such close proximity every day has been hard on both of you. One of his hands trails up your back, following the small, hollow line of your spine and he feels you shiver under his touch, even when it is still so simple and innocent. He cups your neck, letting his thumb rub circles into the soft skin there. “Forgive me.”

He doesn’t even realize that a tear has slipped from your eyes–not until it falls onto his arm, making him turn his attention back to your face. It breaks his heart because he is certain it is far from the first tear you’ve shed over him.

“Dulcissima–” He rasps, his voice strained with the effort to keep it from quivering. “I was scared. But I never should have let you go–”

“Promise me,” you choke out and now it is your turn to cup his face, your soft hands settling on his beard, making him look at you. He is still terrified. Of messing up, of putting you in danger. But he’d rather be terrified with you than anyone else. “Promise me you won’t leave again, Acacius.”

“Promitto,” he hums, using his thumb to brush away another stray tear that is attempting to make its way down your face. Here he is, making you miserable and lonely for weeks and you are still looking at him like he created the worlds. “Until the day the gods take me and even then. I would do as Virgil told. I would return from the gates of hell. I would come back to find you, Dulcissima.”

A small smile decorates your face and you nod weakly, your hand settling over his, linking your fingers together. “There is this part where he says–” You clear your throat before reciting, “then dire debate and impious war shall cease, and the stern age be soften’d into peace: Then banish’d Faith shall once again return, and Vestal fires in hallow’d temples burn.”

“You were not joking when you said you read Virgil,” Acacius mutters, recalling the way he himself read those lines many years ago. “And you are certain? About this?”

“More than anything.”

Acacius nods and sighs softly. “It is late.” He doesn’t even need to finish his thought before you are already nodding, squeezing his hand and leading the way through the small gardens and up to the villa.

When you stand in front of the mirror hung in one of the alcoves of the room, you turn this way and that, admiring the way the fabrics settle on your body, the red and gold shawl wrapped around your shoulders. Your hand reaches for a strand of your hair that is usually decorated with your infula, arranged to fit neatly below it. You’ve taken it off for him before. So why should you not take it off for yourself? Just for one night. No one would ever be the wiser. And even if Acacius does still despise you, you are certain he would not have you turned over to the Pontifex Maximus for a crime this small. Not when you both are guilty of much worse.

Your hands tremble ever so slightly as you arrange your hair without the veil, something you do so rarely you’ve almost forgotten how to. But after two failed attempts, you are successful in pushing a few parts back, securing them with a golden brooch and leaving the majority of your hair down.

“There we are,” you mutter to yourself, nodding in satisfaction when you give yourself one last once-over in the mirror.

It is already nearing sunset when you open the wooden door to peek down into the atrium, only to be met with the broad back of Rusticus. Of course. It would've been naive to think that Acacius has just relieved the soldier of his duties regarding your protection.

“Sir?” You ask softly, keeping the door open just enough to allow your voice to travel through the small slit. “May you tell the General I am ready?”

You hear rustling as the man turns around, pausing for a few moments as he tries to catch a glimpse of you. 

“I just need to finish my … hair,” you add weakly, hoping to explain away why you won’t face him.

“Very well. I’ll be only a moment,” the man grunts before heavy steps begin to travel down the hallway and die down in the distance of the atrium below.

You slip the door shut again and step back into your room, a spacious but comfortable space. The side across from the entrance is lined with windows that look out to the sea, framed by cream-colored drapings that are so light they move with every blow of the evening winds. You stand beside them, running a hand over the soft fabric that covers the stone columns and your eyes trail over the small roads below, one or two altars visible even from here. Children are sprinting up and down the street, giggling as the older citizens prepare the offerings to be given to the deities.

A knock on the door makes you turn, the voice behind the wood unmistakable even when muffled. “You may enter,” you call softly, folding your hands in front of you.

“My lady,” Acacius gives a small bow as he steps inside, pausing when his eyes wander over your form. “You–” You can tell that he tries very hard to look at your face and your face only. “You are dressed rather lightly. Are you sure you will not be cold? It will be dark soon.”

“I will be fine,” you reassure him quietly, watching as he slowly closes the distance between you. He’s laid off his armour, switching the gold and white chestplate for a toga and cape that are worked with fine details, though not overbearing. You wonder if he chose it himself or if Lucilla picked it out for him but you don’t think he would appreciate the question so you stay quiet.

You are already on the stairs, slowly descending into the sunlight filled atrium together, when his eyes go wide and he pauses. “You forgot your veil,” he mutters, turning on his heel. “I will fetch it for you.”

“There is no need,” you say quietly and you can watch confusion spread over his fate, followed by disbelief when you fail to elaborate further.

“Is that allowed?” He looks genuinely concerned and you can't help it– you have to laugh.

“What?” He asks, his eyes still wide at this sudden display of joy.

“I am not on duty. I may take it off.” You shrug weakly as you descend the last few steps on your own with Acacius following closely behind you. “It may be … frowned upon in Rome but no one here knows me. A priestess does not carry a halo.”

“What if someone does? If someone does know you?” He presses.

“I would find a way,” you hum, listening to his steps as he follows you and appears at your side once again. “I don’t wish to be a Vestal tonight.”

You can see his eyes jerk to each side, no doubt checking if anyone is listening in on your conversation. But with no hosts and neither of you requiring many servants, the house above the sea sits mostly vacant. “You should not speak like that.”

“I don’t wish for gifts and gratitude and grace tonight. It is what I’ve known all my life. People do not see me. They see Vesta and the veil. We are so far from Rome–” You shake your head softly. “Who is to say I could not be someone else in these lands?”

Acacius’s attention has returned to you and he looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t.

“The Compitalia is a day for all. Even slaves can act as free women and men tonight. How is it that a slave may do as they please but a Vestal may not?”

You watch his expression harden, his jaw twitching in the small way that you’re certain others wouldn’t even notice. It is the same expression you’ve watched him give his soldiers when they misbehave, the same one he had when he yelled at them for laughing at you the day you left Rome. But unlike them, you do not fear anything from him. He has already done what you feared most. No punishment could be worse, no sword could cut deeper than the words he spoke to you that night in the bathhouse.

“Do you wish to trade your place with that of a slave?” You expected him to be mad about defying him. Not about disrespecting those who are most disrespected in the Empire.

“No,” you admit quietly, bowing your head. “That is not what I meant.” The silence that follows your admission seems to settle onto the whole house and stretches uncomfortably. Acacius is the one to break it.

“Come. We do not want to miss the celebration.” He waits for you to step outside, closing the door behind himself and then resumes his place beside you. 

It is unlike any celebration of Compitalia you have ever seen. The streets are filled with people of all ages and backgrounds, men and women your age, parents, grandparents, children. An occasional stray slipping around people’s legs. The entrances to the villas lining the coastal town have decorations strung up above their doors; small woolen figures, some resembling men, others resembling women.

You nudge Acacius, nodding towards a house that has several of the figures dangling in the evening light. “What is their purpose?”

His eyes follow your gaze. “They represent those that live in the house. The figures are offerings, they are hung as a silent plea to the deities. The Lares and Mania spare those living inside and take their woolen versions instead. Do you see the cotton balls?” You nod and listen as he continues. In all honesty, you have not expected him to have such extensive knowledge of the customs in Brundisium. “They represent the slaves of the house, so that they may be spared as well.” The house and the figures fall away as you both fall quiet and continue down the small road, one that curves occasionally, looking almost like it is slipping through the legs of the buildings on either side the same way the animals are around your feet. Candles are being lit as the light begins to fade, the orange sky turning red. The busy street becomes less so and you relax your shoulders a bit, no longer trying to make your way through a crowd. And with your surroundings, it seems that the silence between you becomes more comfortable as well, less heavy than it was in the atrium.

“Do you miss Rome?” His question catches you off guard.

“No,” you respond before you can even really think it through. “I mean, a bit. I miss my friends. Severa most of all.”

“She is one of the other Vestals, correct?” Acacius hums, keeping his voice low enough that passersbys will not be alerted to your conversation unless they try very hard.

“How do you know that?” You blurt out, not bothering to hide the surprise on your face. “She has business with the Senators occasionally. So do I. I’ve crossed her path,” he explains quietly but you can tell there is something he is not telling you. One does not ask a Vestal her personal name just because she has business in the same room. You merely quirk your brow, signaling that you are waiting for him to continue. And to your surprise, Acacius sighs and obeys your silent ask. “I met her in the temple. When I was–”

“Praying?” You ask, ending the sentence for him. But he merely shakes his head, the smallest trace of a smile on your lips.

“I respect your goddess,” he starts quietly as the road takes another turn. “But Vesta is not who I came to see that day.”

He says it like it is passing news of an order fulfilled, not like he has just revealed to you that he was indeed looking for you the day you broke the water jug. You still remember the way he looked, the way he moved through a space that feels like the most intimate one in this world and all others. You were trembling with shock, with fear, that day. Not of him, even though you remember thinking it at the time. It was fear of the things that were happening inside you, the thoughts that he was prompting you to have.

“You said it would be a shame if you returned to Rome the same way you left it,” he says softly and you are thankful that the crowd has disappeared because you don’t think you could handle hearing these things from his lips while surrounded by people.

“I think there are experiences worth much more than gold to be had in other parts of the lands,” you agree. The small road has been leading down for a bit now and after another turn, it opens up to the sea on one side, the port and the ships anchored alongside it visible in the distance. They sway with the current, their masts and rolled up sails moving from one side to another in a steady, calming rhythm. The sun has just set and torches and fires are being lit along the coast, the people ready for celebration. “I think I could really be someone else here,” you repeat quietly.

“Then tell me; how does someone else feel about dancing?” It’s the second time tonight that his question catches you off guard.

“What?”

“Dancing. Moving your limbs around in a rhythm. Easier if there’s music,” he hums and you can tell he’s making fun of you. “The piazza at the end of Via Appia will be as alive as ever just about now. It is rather a sight.”

“Are you asking me to dance with you, General?” It is now your turn to smirk, waiting to see if your question will embarrass him. But if it does, he’s a master at hiding it.

“That seems to be the case, Dulcissima,” he whispers, his eyes following a woman pushing a cart into your direction. “Dear lady,” he calls out, stepping toward the woman with a smile on his lips.

“Forgot to bake your honey cakes, Sir?” She calls as the cart comes to a halt. Indeed, upon closer inspection you find the cart loaded with honeyed cakes, one or two large bowls filled with wool and a few bags of what you presume to be wine.

“Precisely.” Acacius gives her a broad smile, reaching for his coin purse and you watch as the woman begins to slip a few of the small cakes into a bag. A thought strikes you.

“Acacius,” you hum, stepping up behind him. “Do we need the woolen figures as well? If the Lares and Mania pass through the streets tonight.” You can tell by his expression that he may not pay the ritual as much value as you do but then his gaze softens and he nods, turning to the woman. “Do you sell figurines as well? Or only the wool?”

“You really are a forgetful one,” she laughs but nods, reaching into a wooden box. “Will it just be two?”

“Three,” you blurt out before Acacius can protest. “Two men and one lady. Please.” At his questioning gaze, you shrug. “Rusticus is staying in the villa too, right? You don’t want my personal guard at risk of causing upset to the deities?”

“Of course not,” he smiles at you as he hands the woman a few coins and you know that he is rather amused by your behaviour and your beliefs.

Acacius pays for the bags and the woman gives you a small smile. “Best remind your husband to get his protection for you on time next year.”

You chalk it up to years and years of smiling through uncomfortable conversations that you manage to stay serious and thank her. “Yes, I will make sure. He is just very forgetful sometimes. Age, you know.”

You feel Acacius stiffen beside you, his brow quirking ever so slightly as he sends a look your way. One that lets you know you will pay for your moment of fun sooner or later. The woman has returned to tending her cart, oblivious to what is happening in front of her eyes. “Here, have this. Enjoy the night.” She hands Acacius one of the flasks and he gives a small bow and another polite thanks before you move on, now loaded up with everything you could need for a proper Compitalia.

You can already hear the music from the piazza, the cheerful sound drifting over the water and onto the open sea, when Acacius steps to the side, fumbling with the bag and offering you a honey cake. “I seem to recall you like these?”

“I do,” you agree but don’t reach for it. “They are supposed to be given to the Deities. They’re not supposed to be for us mortals.”

Acacius makes a face, nudging the sweet treat into your direction. “We’ll save one and place it on one of the altars later. It is why I got two.” His hand is still outstretched, propping the honey cake up. When you still don’t move, he shrugs. “Please, if you won’t have it I will.”

Before you can protest again, he has raised the cake to his mouth and takes a bite, humming contently as the thick honey fills his mouth. “What a gentleman,” you mutter, reaching to take the treat from him. To your surprise, he lets go as soon as you’ve gripped it and you bring it to your own lips, watching as a fine string of honey extends from his mouth.

You watch him lick his lips and brush his thumb over the thick honey coating the corners while you take a bite. It makes you wonder if it is because of that detail that it tastes like the best honeyed cake you’ve ever tasted. “This is delicious,” you half-moan into your second bite and Acacius just nods in agreement. He waits patiently until you’re done, letting you chew in peace, both of you taking in your surroundings. The last rays of the sun have disappeared, leaving the sea to your right dark and quiet.

“She gave us wine?” You ask eventually, prompting to the flask he is holding and Acacius nods, handing it to you.

“She did. She also thought–” You know what he is about to say. You both do. And you haven’t had enough wine or honeyed cakes to have that conversation with him. Your fingers tremble as you open the flask.

“Well, she was wrong,” you state quickly, cutting him off before he even has a chance to say the words. “People make mistakes.” You tip your head back, allowing some of the wine to flow into your mouth, the bitter taste mixing with the sweetness the honey left behind.

That is, until your gaze lands on Acacius again. His smile has vanished. “Yeah. They do.”

You swallow and shake your head, silently offering him the wine. He drinks. Then, you both begin to walk again, heading closer and closer to the music.

Indeed, half the townsfolk seems to have gathered around the two columns, people sitting on the steps that lead down to the sea, altars set up around several of the crossroads. Women are twirling in their long gowns, laughter echoing around you. It is a beautiful scene.

“You promised me a dance,” you say softly and Acacius sighs, placing the bags and flask by the bottom of the stairs and offering you his hand. “We don’t have to,” you add quickly, not wanting to ruin the mood once and for all. Half an hour ago, he admitted to having sought you out in the temple and now this.

“I keep my promises, Dulcissima,” he hums and you step closer, placing both your hands in his, allowing him to lead you in a circle. “You may have been right in not wearing your veil tonight then.”

“And why is that?” You ask quietly, easing your body into the rhythm of the music and that of him.

He draws you in closer and you let him. His mouth comes to your ear, making sure that no one else can listen to words meant solely for you. “Because I am not sure people would appreciate me touching a Vestal like this.”

“I thought we agreed I was not a Vestal tonight,” you whisper back, letting one of your hands crawl up his arm until it settles on his shoulder.

“We did,” he agrees, picking up his pace as the musicians begin a faster song. He is so close that you can feel the heat radiate from his body, feel his breath on your shoulder whenever he steps closer. And his hand stays in yours, throughout every song, not once letting go.

“Thank the gods,” he whispers just as the song you were swaying to comes to an end.

"I'll take the bed by the door," he states. They're some of the first words he's said to you all day, probably because he knows what day it is. He always does. There's no space for arguing when he sets his backpack down on the mattress in question before sitting on the edge, knees cracking in the process.

You say nothing as you move past him, grateful to maintain the silence as you navigate toward the second bed. The motel had been a rare find, something you'd only been able to locate when a hoard of clickers had disrupted your path back from Lincoln. The two of you had checked the remaining rooms and eventually settled on this one, the only one with a full set of sheets still spread out on each bed, as though nothing had ever happened.

Not that it would help you sleep. You never did. Not today.

Usually, the second bed would feel like a luxury, but now it feels somewhat like a burden. One you won't share with him, not now, probably not ever. So instead, you let your own pack fall to the ground, your body collapsing against the soft fabric. A cloud of dust rises into the air, making you cough, but it settles back around you as you close your eyes, just for a moment.

"You should get some sleep," Joel notes from where he's still sitting. You know he hasn't moved, that he's still transfixed on the window, trying to figure out a way to better block the outside world from invading your newfound space the same way he'd pushed the desk up against the door. The way he'd been protecting you since the day he found you exactly four years ago.

Only, when you tilt your head in his direction and crack open your eyes, you find him watching you instead.

The lie spills easily from your lips, even if there's little use in saying it at all. He knows, but he won't argue. "I'm fine."

Joel frowns, but he doesn't say anything further. He just turns his gaze back to the window, not willing to push you because he wouldn't want you to push him either. It's the first of the unspoken rules that exist in the space between you. You won't ask him about his daughter, and he won't ask you about your fiancé.

"You could use some sleep, too," you remind him, because even if you know sleep won't take you, maybe it'll at least take him for a while.

You expect him to resist, especially today, but he doesn't. He simply pulls off his boots and moves to slip beneath the blankets covering his bed, turning away from you so his bad ear is the one pressed against the pillow. You mirror his motions, slipping off your worn shoes and settling against your own bed with your back against the headboard.

There's no need for you to keep watch, not when you're as secure as can be and you both still have your pistols well within reach. No one knows you're here, there's no electricity for lights even if you wanted them, and the entire building had been devoid of activity when you'd searched it, but still sleep doesn't come. Not when you let yourself rest your head against the pillow, not when you do your best to go through the alphabet of city names that used to exist, not even when you close your eyes and try to listen to the soft rhythm of Joel's breathing.

If he sleeps, that's your only sign. The gentle rise and fall of his breath, even and calming. A reminder that even when you've lost everyone else, he's still here. Even if, in this moment, you wish the second bed didn't exist. That you would be able to face him and trace the lines of his face as you fight off the exhaustion threatening to overtake you. Something like disappointment runs through your veins as you long for him to be closer. Closer would be enough.

And then, as though he can hear your silent plea, he moves.

There's a second unspoken agreement you'd come to some years ago, when on that first anniversary you'd woken screaming in the middle of the night. He'd held you tightly against him until you returned to reality. Not to sleep, reality, where he whispered quietly in your ear. You'd be afraid to sleep in the years that followed, able to seemingly block out the visions of someone you used to know necessarily at the other end of your own pistol every night except for one, but each time he'd encompass you. Just for the night, just while you needed him.

Even if you were afraid to admit that you needed him more often than not.

Now, as he maneuvers from his bed and dips a knee onto your mattress, tugging the blankets from your body so he can slip in beside you, there are no words. He simply draws you against him, warmth flooding your senses as he guides your head to his chest, his hand tangling itself in your hair as he brushes through the strands.

There's the ghost of his lips against the crown of your head when you let yourself relax against him, weaving your leg between his just before you allow the tears to spill from your eyes. They'll dampen his shirt, but he's never complained before and he won't complain now. It's here, after all, in the quiet of the night that his rough exterior falls away, allowing you and only you to witness what lies beneath.

"I'm here," he reminds you, as though now sleep will come.

It won't.

Not for you and probably not for him. Not tonight, anyway. And tomorrow, he'll rise with the sun and act as though nothing happened. Pretend that it wasn't his embrace that kept the demons away.

“Fine,” you groan, only reluctantly agreeing to his peace offer. It's not as good as staying in bed with him but you can always take a nap later and enjoy his presence while you have it. You peel the sheets off your body, padding over to the bathroom while you listen to Joel pull on jeans and a shirt that already has so many holes in it you don't bother to count them anymore.

You’ve settled into a comfortable routine during the summer months, even with him leaving early and coming home late. With Sarah at football camp, you have the house all to yourself, a luxury you enjoy more than you’d like to admit. You’ve spent countless days lounging in the backyard or swimming a few laps around the pool, occasionally preparing a fancy dinner for Joel or making yourself useful in any other way. He drinks coffee by his kitchen window every morning, unless he’s running late. Today, you join him, hopping up onto the counter as the sun steadily rises and the first cars are started up outside, bringing people to work.

You remind him to give you a kiss every day, despite knowing that he’d never forget. No matter if you’re in the kitchen with him or still in bed or already nose-deep in a book. Without fail, Joel Miller finds you before he leaves.

“We’re finally getting that delivery today,” Joel hums, swirling the last sips of his coffee around in his mug. “If the load ‘s good, I could get off early.”

“That would be nice,” you agree softly, rubbing the last bit of sleep out of the corners of your eyes. “Think I’ll take a dip in the pool later.”

“Then I better be home to see that,” Joel teases as he turns his back to you, washing his mug out in the sink. Then, he leans over to kiss you again and it only makes you long for him more. You’re certain he feels the same.

“You check your levels?” He hums into your neck and oh, he’s gotten smart, asking when he knows you won’t push him away.

“All good,” you reassure him. Some days, you think he is more occupied with your condition than you are, fussing over you and reminding you to track your sugar and insulin constantly. It’s gotten annoying occasionally, but you know he only does it because he cares. And if you’re being honest with yourself, that is a big part of why he has become your favorite person rather quickly.

You watch as Joel grabs his tool belt and heads out the door, giving you one little last wave. Then, you listen to the truck start up outside and the sound of the engine that slowly fades away into the distance.

“Fine,” you mutter to yourself, jumping off the kitchen counter to reach for your phone. You prefer tracking with the dexcom sensor, the device making it so easy to check your levels at all times. Today, you’re in the clear. The number inside the small circle in the app reads 110.

The blue insulin pen is waiting for you beside the fridge, placed on a small wooden tray that conveniently showed up there the first time you slept over. It holds a few small juice boxes, glucose tablets and your trusted pen.

You stare at it for a few moments, weighing it in your hands as you calculate how much you’ll need for your breakfast. Then, with practiced ease, you poke yourself with the needle, allowing the chosen amount of liquid to flow into your body.

“Ten minute warning…” You hum, putting the pen back into its place and reaching for the kitchen shelf instead. You’ve gotten much better at timing your breakfast properly, making sure that the insulin doesn’t act too fast nor too slow.

Once you’re done eating, you check the number again. 160. All fine, just like you promised Joel. Good.

It’s still early but you don’t feel like going back to bed. Thursday means the farmer’s market is happening at the local community center and for once you may be early enough to have the first pick. The fresh fruits and vegetables have a tendency to bring mouth-watering recipe ideas for dinner to your mind so you lock the front door behind you and head out.

Indeed, the stands are not yet picked over and you take your time, enjoying the nice weather and chatting with a few familiar faces. The short trip turns into a few hours and it’s only when the heat starts to press down on you below the plastic tents that you make your way back. The groceries are unloaded rather quickly and you fetch your current read, a book about a spontaneous summer love in Italy, from upstairs.

It’s been exactly the kind of uneventful day you enjoy in the summer, the one that leaves you feeling warm and tanned and thankful for pools and cool drinks. The way it should be. You have no idea that this is about to change.

The deck at the back of the Miller’s house is shaded so that you don’t feel like you’ll immediately burn up in the sun. A soft groan of relief escapes you as you stretch out on the lounge chair, opening your book to where you left off. You read about cicadas and pine trees and steady waves rolling ashore and slowly but surely, your eyes begin to droop.

***

Something is wrong. The sun is much lower than it was a few minutes ago. The front door opens and closes. Joel can’t be back yet. It’s still lunchtime.

For a moment, you think you are just too sleepy, that you are still in some kind of dream. Then, you think you’ve spent too much time in the sun. It takes a few seconds for you to realize that the way you’re feeling, a bit hazy, a bit like you’re floating– it’s low sugar.

You blindly reach to your right, onto the wooden table beside you but your phone isn’t in reach. When you turn your head, you realize why. You never brought it outside. It’s still on the kitchen counter, where you left it after unloading the groceries.

Slowly, you stand, looking down to see that your legs are trembling slightly. You force them to take one step after another, coaxing your body in an attempt to stay upright. You can already hear the soft beeping noise from inside the house that alerts you to a number outside the safe range. You push past the screen door– but before you can reach the kitchen, and with it your phone, Joel reaches you.

His eyes are wide, the panic clear on his face as he holds your phone in his right hand, the alert on the display blinking in a steady rhythm, displaying a too low 63. “Did you eat?” He presses out, his free hand coming up to rest on your shoulder, steadying you. The worry in his voice is palpable and you shake your head at his question.

“Okay, okay–” The gears are turning in his head and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or himself. “Okay. We need– Do you need me to get the emergency pen?”

“No,” you quickly decline. “No, it’s okay, it’s not that bad.”

You can see him weighing his options, his eyes raking over your face and your body for a moment, no doubt trying to assess your state. You know you’re shaking and that your face likely looks drained, a thin sheen of sweat covering it. His gaze turns to the kitchen next and you can see him fight with himself. Ultimately, Joel steps forward, wrapping an arm around you and leading you into the living room, his grasp not leaving you until you’re securely seated on the couch. “Can’t have you passing out now. Don’t try and stand, alright? Just … sit tight.”

He puts your phone down and rushes to the kitchen, leaving you alone with the low number on the display that almost seems to laugh at you. What were you thinking, dozing off like that?

Joel is back after mere seconds, holding up a juice box in one hand and the package of glucose tablets in the other, silently letting you choose. You point at the juice and he nods, kneeling in front of you and sticking the thin plastic straw into the pre-punched hole. “One apple juice, coming right up.” You can tell he’s trying to lighten the mood but you can’t bring yourself to give him more than a weak smile in return.

He nudges the box into your hands and then sits patiently as you begin to drink, one of his hands coming to rest on your thigh, his thumb drawing lazy circles into your skin. “15 – 15 rule, right?” Joel asks and at the look of surprise on your face, he adds; “15 grams of carbs, wait for 15 minutes. Then see if it helped?”

“Yeah,” you agree in between small sips. “Yeah, how do you know about 15 – 15?” You watch as a faint blush spreads over his cheeks but he shakes his head, dismissing the question.

“Just do. It doesn’t matter.” His motions on your leg pause as you finish your juice, allowing him to take the empty carton from you and place it on the floor behind him. “You feelin’ any better, darlin’?” You can tell by his voice that he is still anxious, his entire attention zoned in on you. You lean back into the cushions, taking a deep breath, slowly calming down. You’ve been there before, you’ve gone into low numbers. But it never gets less scary.

“It’s fine,” you reassure him because you can still feel his gaze on you. “Not like this hasn’t happened before.” The dry comment is aimed to brush him off but it seems to do the opposite.

“No. I mean, yes, but it shouldn't be happening at all,” Joel shakes his head and ow. You know you messed up but hearing it from him stings more than you thought it would.

“You try tracking every meal every day and living with this– this–” You can feel you working yourself up, anger bubbling inside you, anger more than happy to find an outlet. But then your eyes fall onto Joel's face. And you see the moment his eyes widen in sheer panic.

“No, no, god no, that is not what I meant–” He stumbles over his words in an attempt to get them out. “I wasn't blaming you, I was saying that– that it's not fair. I just hate to see you suffer, that's all.” His brown eyes remind you so much of a kicked puppy that you almost want to cry.

A soft hoot from your phone makes you both turn your heads, the number 107 popping up. Back in range. Joel sighs in relief.

“Good. This is good.” He stretches slightly, one hand pressed against his lower back. “You want a nap?”

“Just had one,” you say quietly, avoiding his eyes.

“Right,” he hums, pinching the bridge of his nose for a few moments and you know he’s thinking again, trying to figure out what to do with you. Because of course you have to make a lovely summer’s day so difficult.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, trying and failing to keep the tears at bay. “I didn’t mean to ruin your evening, I know you had work–”

He cuts you off by squeezing your thigh once, shaking his head as he maneuvers himself onto the couch beside you. “Look at me, baby,” he coaxes you to shift towards him, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I never ever want to hear you apologizing for this again. It ain’t your fault, darlin’. Never was and never will be. And I’ve told you before, we’re in this together. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek and he catches it with his thumb, tutting quietly. His arms find their way around you and he pulls you into his chest, burying his nose in your hair, whispering sweet nothings into the otherwise silent room.

“How ‘bout we watch one of them movies you like so much?” Joel offers when he pulls back after a few minutes, his hand still intertwined with yours. You have movie night more often than not, but usually, he doesn’t let you pick. Nor you him. It's a middle ground, one that is found after quite a bit of discussion.

“You hate them,” you argue weakly, a small laughter slipping out. You’ve tried introducing Joel to Rom-Coms, the classics, the modern ones, those that he may not at first glance recognize as such. But so far, you haven’t hit his taste.

“Not today,” he hums with a small smile. “Today I promise I’ll love them.” You both chuckle quietly and he does let you pick, not once complaining as he kneels in front of the TV to start the movie. He keeps a watchful eye on you throughout the next roughly 90 minutes, getting you a glass of water and another snack when you need it, his arm comfortably wrapped around your shoulder like he’s not quite willing to let go.

“How did you know?” You ask into the near-silence when the credits are flickering over the screen, some love song quietly playing over them. “About the rule I mean.”

“Uh, let’s see–” Joel makes a face. “Might’ve read a book or two.”

You squeeze him a bit tighter at that. Because you know that people who see Joel in his truck or at the construction site may think he’s gruff and cold. You had similar worries when your eyes first landed on him. But you know how much he cares. About Sarah and about you, about being there in whatever way he can. No matter if it’s stocking up on juice or kissing you every morning or secretly reading books so he can understand you better. He’s here for it all. And so are you. Together.

“Yes,” you say quietly, not exactly wanting to wake Acacius or the couple of the house and alert them to your plans. You ponder your words for a few moments before nodding toward the stairs. “I wish to pay a short visit into town. To pray at the temple.”

You can see the man weighing his options. You’re sure that Acacius has left very clear instructions. But to your surprise, he nods. “Very well. But please wear a coat. And only a brief visit. We need be here when your carriage arrives.” You find your coat and a colorful scarf before he can change his mind and step into the morning air, the cold more noticeable at this time of day. There is still dew covering the gardens, the sun only starting to rise.

The soldiers nod as you and your guard pass them and you try to push the upset at this notion out of your mind. Instead, you focus on your goal. The temple is empty when you reach it and despite the slightly different architecture and circumstances, it makes you feel a bit more at home.

“I will wait by the door, my lady,” the man hums quietly, retreating into the shadows, even though you are sure he is still keeping a watchful eye on you.

You kneel and say your prayers, finding that if you close your eyes and take a deep breath, the memories that are awoken feel so close that you seem to be able to touch them. Vesta’s temple back home. Your room. The streets of Rome. The people of Rome.

It suddenly appears to you that the only person you truly know so many miles from your bed is Acacius. That none of the townsfolk or soldiers even know your full name. They don’t see past the veil, nor do they care to try.

Your personal guard opens the heavy oak doors for you after you return to his side and your eyes flick to the left, toward the main street that is slowly starting to come to life.

“May I interest you in a sweet treat?” No matter how gruff and broad and scary a man is, you doubt there is anyone in the empire who doesn't enjoy an occasional sweet. And you are counting on him to be the same.

You can feel the man pause beside you. “My lady?” He asks, his face betraying no emotion as he turns to face you. You give him a smile, nodding toward the street.

“The bakery over there. I would like something. If you are already guaranteeing my safety, the least I can do is see to your rations.” You explain, as if buying a man that has been assigned to guard you against your will sweet treats is the most normal thing in the world.

It is when you have secured your baked goods and are heading back onto the street, the sun now fully risen, that you spot the small cart of fruits. Early shoppers are already haggling with the old man, discussing the prices of his apples and you fumble with your coins, picking a few golden ones and sneaking them into the man's coinbox in passing. You don't miss your guard’s eyes following your movements, raising a brow. When you are out of earshot, you let out a small wince. “Please do not tell.”

You can see him pause for a moment, his gaze staying fixed on the road before you. Then, he shakes his head ever so slightly. “I don't see how it concerns me.” You almost think you see a tiny smirk play around his lips.

You’re already back on the grounds, watching as your carriage is being loaded and prepared for the next part of your travels when you turn to him. “May I ask your name?”

He still doesn't smile but nods. “Rusticus.” Then, he bows ever so slightly. “At your service.”

*** You find very quickly that Rusticus is not a fan of conversation. But at least he does not bother you. He keeps his distance, stays respectful and if having him around means Acacius will stop bothering you, you are more than glad to make the trade.

The nights in the tent do indeed bring more sleep, but the days are long and daunting. The weather starts to look up two days after you’ve left Beneventum, the sun coming through more often and the temperatures rise more and more the further south you travel. The moment in the gardens, with Acacius trailing his fingers over your stola and the stars shining above you seems as far out of reach as Rome.

You haven’t been told how many days this part of Via Appia will take but you feel a small jolt of excitement the first time you can spot the sea from your carriage. You can hear the waves rolling in at night and it is the first time you dream of him.

It feels like Acacius is standing in your tent, like he is stepping toward you with gentle steps, pushing the curtains to the side to settle beside you. You know it must be a dream because he looks younger, like less worries rest on his shoulder. Like he hasn't collected all the scars that litter his body yet.

His red toga rustles in the soft breeze that is brushing through your tent and you reach out to touch him, your hand finding his cheek, tracing the stubble of his beard that is, even in this vision, starting to grey in a few spots. You open your mouth because you want to speak, because you have so many things you need to tell him. But then you see him shake his head and your chance passes like the waves in the distance.

“Go back to sleep, Dulcissima,” he whispers and you can only nod, your eyelids drooping. You try to fight it, willing yourself to sit up and wake yourself properly. But you are merely met with your curtains and your hand tangled in them, and with Acacius nowhere to be seen.

When you leave your tent the next morning, greeting Rusticus with a small nod, you spot Acacius almost immediately. He is surrounded by his highest ranks, one hand tapping against his thigh in a slow rhythm. You hate that you know the gesture, that you know it is what he does when he’s anxious. Which no one else would ever see in him. He’s holding himself proudly, giving his white and gold armour the moment it deserves. It’s how you know that today will mark the end of your land journey, unless you’re much mistaken.

Acacius seems to be on his best looks and behavior whenever you reach a big town and make halt there, which certainly has something to do with very important people and very important politics. You don’t care much for either.

His curls look even more lush and bouncy today and as you watch him from the safety of your carriage as he steers his white stallion with practiced ease. You long to reach out and run your hands through them, twirl the curls between your fingers until you find the small streaks of grey that are beginning to show. He felt so real last night, so close. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll at least have him in your dreams.

Via Appia leads you straight into Brundisium, a town surrounded by high, stone walls on one side and the sparkling blue sea on the other. It doesn't feel unlike Beneventum a few days ago but the difference in class is immediately noticeable. Many of the houses look well cared for, not rarely with gardens equally as tended surrounding them. The streets off to the side lead up and down, those that face east letting you sneak more glances at the sea in the distance. Something must be happening in the town because you see decorations being handed around, preparations of some kind taking place.

Once again, it is only a selected few of the soldiers that accompany the General and your carriage behind the town walls, the majority of them likely setting up camp in front of the gates. You wonder if they have a view of the sea, if you will. Whatever room Acacius will lock you up in in this town, it better have a good view.

“Thank you Rusticus–” You say politely out of habit when you step out of your carriage once it has come to a halt, holding onto the hand that has been extended toward the door. To your surprise, for once, it is not your personal guard that is helping you descend.

Up close, the two griffins on Acacius’s chest seem to reflect the rays of sunshine even more, like he himself is shining rather than sol above. You drop his hand so abruptly that your fingers brush past his fine golden bracers. The metal has been warmed up by the heat of his body but the touch somehow almost seems to burn you.

Acacius’s eyes fly to yours, the trace of concern evident. You watch as his brows furrow slightly and there is another emotion in his face that you can’t put your finger on. “My lady?” He asks quietly, beckoning you onto the piazza in front of you. It’s a subtle way to remind you that you are not alone.

Soldiers are dismounting their horses around you, those of high ranks shaking hands with men that wear large coats and expensive jewelry. The sight fits the stories you’ve heard of Brundisium. A town that has profited greatly from the trade that passes through it, from ships bringing spices, soft fabrics and other exotics. A wealth that the townsfolk clearly likes to show off.

The space in front of you is dominated by two large columns, stretching up into the sky. You consider them for a moment, not used to seeing columns this large that do not serve any purpose. “Do these predate the Empire?” As you step closer to try and read the inscriptions, you feel Acacius shift beside you.

“They mark the end of Via Appia,” he explains gently while you begin to round the stone pillars together, his gaze wandering up and down along the smooth stone.

“Or the beginning,” you add without really considering it. A street works both ways. Trade wouldn't be trade if it didn't. So the end of the street really is just a curve, one that sends you back along your way.

“I believe that is why there are two,” Acacius nods thoughtfully as he stops beside them, his eyes now back on you. “Because it could be either.”

“Or both,” you mumble, holding his gaze for a few moments. To your surprise, he doesn't withdraw or correct you. Instead, he nods again, his eyes fixed on yours.

“Or both.”

This time around, despite the many important people that practically trip over their feet trying to get Acacius’s attention, your domicile is not shared with any rich family. Carefully navigating past the soldiers still unloading, the General leads you across the piazza and toward a large villa to the right.

You take in your surroundings, realizing that the bustling activity is more than what you made it out to be at first glance. Off to the sides, several tables are being set up, almost like altars, candles and small items placed on them that you can’t quite make out from distance.

Acacius follows your gaze, a small smile spreading over his face. “Have you attended Compitalia before?”

You shake your head at the question. “No. Not really, at least. I’ve read of the celebrations down here being much larger. It is not as much a custom in Rome, is it?”

“The people of Rome have many festivals to attend,” he says softly and you wonder if he is also thinking about the fact that you celebrated the last one together, that Bona Dea was the start of whatever this between you has grown into. “Compitalia goes back far beyond Rome. Maybe as far as the Vestals.” He looks at you for a moment. “But it was banned for many years. Emperor Augustus brought it back, but it was never as important in Rome as it is in the countryside.”

“It is for the Lares Compitales, right?” You recall. Part of your training was learning about all the festivals, partly for knowledge and partly because the Vestals tend to many of them. Not the Compitalia though.

“Yes. The household deities. Those of the crossroads and public streets. Each neighborhood has their own.” Acacius points over to separate altars being erected, all of them sitting above a crossroad. “Tomorrow, they will ask the deities to have mercy and good will for the year to come. I visited Brundisium during the festival once before. It was lovely. There is music and dance and honeyed cakes. It is a festival of the people.”

You can’t help but listen eagerly, even if you still feel a grudge towards the man beside you. But his experience, the distances he’s traveled and cultures he has witnessed along the way are fascinating. It feels more like what you'd imagined your own travels to be like, too.

“This is where we will stay,” Acacius leads you past the gates and up smooth stone steps into the vestibulum of the villa. The high ceilings, decorated with coffers and small mosaics that show scenes of ships and the sea, make you realize that this dwelling is very much to your taste. You can hear a fire cackling somewhere in another room and the noise of the crowd outside lessens as you pass through the hallway that leads to the atrium. You turn your head to the side– and pause.

Almost on eye level, you are met with a small epigraph. It is not the first one you’ve seen at the entrance to a villa but what strikes you is the name below the quote.

You hear Acacius’s steps die down beside you and then he sighs deeply, stepping toward the wall. “You really are curious, Dulcissima,” he hums and you try and ignore what hearing the nickname from his lips does to your insides. It’s like a fire has been lit.

“I like to learn,” you state matter-of-factly. “It would be a shame if I returned to Rome the same as I was.” You watch his shoulders tense slightly at your words and despite Acacius’s face not being visible to you, you feel that he is following his own train of thought.

“Yes. It would be.” He traces the words that are engraved into the stone with his fingers, his touch following the curves so gently as if he were the one to write them.

Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis; sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras,

hoc opus, hic labor est. Pauci, quos aequus amavit.

His voice is quiet when he begins to read and somehow, you can feel that he is not really here when he speaks those words. That he is somewhere else. You’re just not sure where. 

“The gates of hell are open night and day;

Smooth is the descent, and easy is the way:

But to come back and view the cheerful skies,

In this the task and mighty labour lies.”

“It is Virgil. The poet,” you hum, taking a few steps toward the epigraph so that you are side by side with the General.

“Forgive me my prejudices but I am surprised a Vestal has read Virgil,” he says softly, turning back to you, his eyes taking in your face, your hair, your veil. Everything.

“I am surprised a General has,” you counter with a small smile and to your surprise Acacius doesn't stop the emotion from showing on his face this time, a small laughter leaving his lips.

You both chuckle quietly as he leads you further into the atrium, one that opens up to a beautiful view of the sea to the east and that of the town to the south. The other sides are lined with high archways and an artistically worked staircase that leads to the upper floor. 

You stroll through the open space, glancing down into the streets below and the altars taking shape on the street corners, a few people hanging decorations in front of their doors. And suddenly, you feel naïve. Because you were so eager to learn about the festival and the town and Virgil that you completely forgot that you are not allowed to experience any of it up close.

“That quote,” Acacius begins, seemingly oblivious to the thoughts that are occupying your head, despite the fact that you feel like you are screaming them. “It is engraved into a wall in one of the rooms on Palatine Hill.”

You frown as you both come to stand beside the edge of the atrium, a gentle breeze blowing around you now. “I must not have seen it when I was there.” You keep your voice quiet, like you are not sure if you’re allowed to mention that you have been in his house. In his bed.

“No, no you wouldn't have.” Acacius’s voice is equally low but it doesn't sound like he’s afraid. He sounds sad. “Lucilla is the only one who ever enters that room. I have only seen it once or twice, when she refused to leave it after–” He sucks in a sharp breath. “It was Lucius’s room. You may not remember, he was–”

“Her son,” you finish quietly, letting your gaze drift over the horizon like you are waiting for something to appear on it. “I remember. I was there, that day.”

You feel Acacius turn to you and when you do the same, the familiar frown is back on his face. “You were there when Maximus was killed?” He stares at you in disbelief. “You only could’ve been–”

“Young,” you agree quietly. “I was pretty young. It could have been only the second or third time I went. It was not– it was not pretty.”

“You hadn't taken your vows yet?” Acacius enquires softly and you shake your head.

“No. No, it was before.” You haven’t really thought about it in recent years. And you suddenly realize that you haven’t thought enough about how close Acacius was to everything, how he was fighting on the front lines of an invisible war.

You send a silent prayer of grace to the gods for making him a General rather than a Gladiator.

“She is a very strong woman,” you add quietly. “A very smart one too.”

“All women are smart,” Acacius blurts out, his face changing again as he leans against one of the columns, looking back out at the sea. “They would not survive any other way. Men on the other hand…”

“They can be a bit more difficult.” You are not sure if he is speaking of other men or himself, if this is his way of a non-committal apology. You are still pondering your words, trying to come up with a clever response that will maybe make him reveal his intentions when he speaks again. 

“You will sneak out again, will you not? To see the festival?”

“Yes.” You mirror his position, leaning against the column beside him so that you are face to face. The worries are still decorating his face but he still nods.

“Then don’t. I–” He holds his hand up when you open your mouth to protest. “I will take you. We can go together.”

“Alright,” you agree, trying not to let your body show how your heart has suddenly started beating out of rhythm. Maybe he still cares for you. At least enough to let you experience something outside of your cage. By his side.

The February air that greets him outside is cold and he shivers in his suit, letting the door fall shut behind him. The balcony stretches along the back of the house, overlooking a forest behind it. It probably makes a nice addition to the venue in the summer, when the weather allows it. But today, it is empty.

He smells him before he sees him. Matt doesn't smoke, unless he counts the two times he tried it in college. He doesn't know shit about cigarettes. But he'd recognize the scent of American Spirits mixed with him anywhere.

The sounds of Renaldo's footsteps echo around the terrasse as he comes closer, like a wolf stalking its prey. “I was waiting for you.”

“Renaldo.” Matt is surprised to hear that his voice comes out shaking. “I didn't know you were here.” He’s not sure why he sounds so hostile. Renaldo hasn't done a thing to him. Except be the very thing he can't have.

“Any yet here I was, still waiting.” He has that fucking smirk on his face.

“How is Santiago?” Matt asks quietly, leaning back against the bannister because he wants to keep as much distance between them as possible and hoping that the topic of Renaldo’s hot brother will provide distraction. But it's like he's back on that golf course where they first met.

“Good. He's good.” Renaldo hums, taking another step towards him. “But that's not the question you really want to ask, is it?” It's like he's challenging him, brown eyes focused on his face, searching for the hint of emotion that will betray his desire and make him an open book. “It's been a very long time, hasn't it? A whole year.”

Matt can feel the man entering his space, his scent even more protruding now. “I told you it wasn't like that, Renaldo. I'm not like that.”

“I don’t remember you complaining,” he muses and fuck, Matt doesnt have it in himself to deny that. “In fact, I think you were doing quite the opposite.” Renaldo’s hand comes to rest on the banister beside his and he towers over him, his voice dropping to a whisper against his ear. “You were begging for it.”

His reaction is immediate. Matt lets out a soft noise that is somewhere between outrage and a moan and he feels his dress pants getting tighter, a shiver running over his body. He takes in Renaldo’s face for a few split seconds, the small goatee, the fine lines that serve as a visual reminder of their age difference and brown eyes filled with lust. Then, Matt pushes himself off the banister and right into Renaldo’s arms, his lips finding those of his illicit lover.

Renaldo’s tongue pushes against his mouth until he gives in and opens for him, their mouths catching his moans when the other man begins to explore his mouth, all restraint forgotten.

Matthew is panting when they break apart. “Not out here. Kelsey's parents are–” He takes a shuddering breath. “Everyone is here. Come on.”

He takes Renaldo’s hand, prompting the other man to follow him without hesitation. They squeeze through the door again, taking a left to get further away from the ceremony hall, when an idea pops into Matthew’s head. The room is small and windowless, almost too full with two chairs, a vanity and clothes rail. It's where he got ready with his best man half an hour earlier. Now, it has turned into the perfect hiding spot.

He doesn't even have a chance to lock the door behind them when Renaldo pushes him further into the room, pinning him against the nearest wall with an audible thud. Matt doesn't know the layout of the house, doesn't know if Kelsey is getting ready behind this very wall. But just the thought of it makes him whimper.

Renaldo’s hands are wandering down his body, his broad form trapping Matt in the most delicious way. He can feel his legs on either side of his right one, already feeling the hard cock pressing into his thigh. By the way his own pants are stretching, he can tell he's not far behind either. One hand finds Matt's back, the other trailing over his neck and somehow Renaldo still knows exactly where to touch him to draw those breathless little moans from his throat.

“You fuck her?” Renaldo grunts and it takes a moment for Matt to remember who he is talking about. His own voice comes out breathless.

“She’s my girlfriend–” He feels Renaldo press into him more at that. “No, she’s your fucking wife,” he growls. “But she was your fiancé last time and you still let me fuck you. So I assume that hasn't changed?”

“I’m not bi,” Matt chokes out, not because he believes it but simply because he's so used to saying it, even when he knows that Renaldo of all people does not give a damn what label he puts on his sex life.

“You want me to stop?” He grunts, searching Matt's eyes for a few seconds. Renaldo can watch as they soften and the younger man shakes his head.

“No,” he whispers and Renaldos smirk returns at that, tugging at the groom's belt.

“Then lose those fucking pants.”

He is eager to obey, fumbling with his belt with shaking hands and then practically ripping his pants down, not even bothering to step out of them properly. Just enough to allow Renaldo access. He hisses as the other man hooks his thumb into his briefs and pulls them down in one quick motion, his cock already hard and leaking. “Should’ve come earlier–” Matthew mutters and the next moment, Renaldo’s hand comes down onto his bare ass, grumbling an empty threat.

His large, callused hand stays there, kneading the flesh and it's like he remembers the exact motions still, both of them no doubt taken back to that night in Scottsdale. Renaldo slips his index finger inside and Matt immediately feels his muscles clench down on him. “Relax.” Renaldos voice is a bit softer now, low against his ear as he begins working his finger further inside, though with a bit of a struggle. The squeezes of his ass turn into soft caresses. “You got any lube on you?”

Matt shakes his head, already trying to mentally prepare himself for a more painful experience than he’d like. But to his surprise, Renaldo just nods and withdraws his finger. “Don't move. I'll be just a second.”

***

His steps through the hallway are hurried, partly because he doesn't want to leave Matt waiting and partly because he doesn't want to be caught sneaking around with a more than obvious boner in his pants. Renaldo nods to himself in relief when he finds the kitchen empty, the staff nowhere to be seen. He eyes the white two-tier cake with a small shake of his head, not paying it too much attention. Instead, he opens one cabinet after another until he finds what he’s looking for. “Bingo.”

He slips back into the dressing room with the bottle of olive oil and laughs as he watches Matt's eyes go wide. “That's the expensive stuff–” He breathes out because of course that's what Matthew would be worried about right now.

“Good,” Renaldo comments dryly. “Then maybe it’ll be nearly as good as real lube.” He carelessly throws the cap into a corner and places the open bottle onto the vanity beside them. As soon as he’s back beside him, Matt's hands reach for him, fingers clawing at the golden chain around his neck, pressing his half naked form against him. It's like now that he has him, he doesn't want to let him go again.

“Do you need to lie down or are you good to stand?” Unless Renaldo is very much mistaken, he doesn't believe that Matt has been with another guy since their fleeting romance and he remembers the whispered confession about being his first.

“I can stand if you can, old man.”

Oh. He knows exactly how to push his fucking buttons. Two can play that game. In one quick motion, Renaldo uses his size to his advantage, turning Matt on the spot and bending him over, the younger man's hands flat against the wall, his ass stuck out and on display. Renaldo brings his palm down on each side, feeling his own desire skyrocket at the sight of his hand imprinted on the cheeks for a few moments.

The soft moans from Matt's mouth mix with the distinct jingle of Renaldo opening his belt, followed by that of a zipper opening. He kicks his pants off and reaches for the bottle, his cock already aching to be touched. The cool sensation of the olive oil sends shivers through his body and Renaldo fists himself a few times, coating his length in the makeshift-lube.

“Who the fuck are you calling an old man, huh?” He grunts as he lines his tip up with Matt's hole and begins to bury himself inside, looking down to watch inch after inch disappear, the younger man's body already so tight around him that he feels like he could shoot his load right away.

“Fuck–” Matt chokes out, curling his fingers as he holds himself up against the wall and Renaldo watches him closely. He knows exactly what he needs. So he leans forward, reaching around to hurriedly undo the buttons of Matt's dress shirt and carelessly sends it to the floor. He runs his tongue over Matt's shoulder as he bottoms out, teeth scraping over his neck. Distracting from the pain that they both know will turn into their favorite pleasure in a few seconds.

“You good?” He hums quietly, giving the other man a moment to check in with him. He watches him nod weakly and Renaldo tuts softly. “Words, baby,” he reminds him.

“Good. It's so good, Jesus–” Matt presses out, rolling his shoulders back slightly. “Please move.”

Renaldo obeys, beginning with shallow thrusts, working his way in and out. His free hand wanders down Matt's chest, fingernails scratching his skin just enough to make him shiver. Then, he finds his lover's middle and wraps his hand around the leaking cock that has been so starved of attention until now. He loves how the other man feels in his hand, heavy and slick with precum.

“You're gonna ruin those pretty dress pants,” Renaldo mutters into his ear, punctuating each of his sentences with a deep thrust. “Did your little wife buy them for you?”

For a split second, he thinks he’s gone too far, feeling Matt tense under him. But then, his dick twitches in his hand, making Renaldo smirk as Matt groans. “I want them ruined.”

He doesn't have to ask twice. Renaldo sets a faster pace, making both of them pant with effort as Matt bounces himself back on his cock. The sound of skin slapping on skin fills the room and judging by its weight, Renaldo is certain that the wooden door of the dressing room is in no way soundproof. Good.

“Renaldo–” Matt doesn't even have to say it. They both know what he’s asking and the older man nods weakly, burying his nose against his neck as a groan leaves him. “Yes.”

He lets his thumb flick over Matthews tip, making him whimper and his body shudder below him. His muscles quiver around his own cock in a way that lets him know he’s close. His grip around Matt's cock tightens and he strokes him right up to that delicious edge. Then, he drops his hand, prompting a weak string of curses from below him.

“I want you to come from just feeling me,” Renaldo rasps and is met with eager nods. “Think you can do that?”

“Yes, fuck–please–” He’s begging the same way he was that night, falling apart below Renaldo’s hands so beautifully. “Renaldo–” He chokes out. “Tell me to leave her.”

He hesitates for a moment, knowing that those words hold more weight than any of their actions tonight. But eventually, he nods, driving himself deep into the man below him. “Leave her.”

Matt moans, his name on his lips and shoots his load without further warning, the sticky fluid ruining his pants the way that Renaldo promised it would. He brings his hand back to stroke his lover through his orgasm, drawing it out and a few moments later, Renaldo follows suit, spilling himself deep inside of Matthew, exactly where he is meant to be, their bodies melting together and he finally, finally marks what is his.

He pulls out with a grunt eventually, watching his cum drip from Matt's hole for a moment, ruining any slight chance of salvaging those black pants, now stained with white. Renaldo lets himself fall onto one of the chairs at the back of the room, beckoning Matt to follow him and pulling him onto his lap, one strong thigh serving as his seat. He closes his eyes for a moment as he feels Matt tracing his gold chain again, his touch now so delicate.

“I'm gonna have to see her at the family functions, won't I? If she gets with Domingo.” Renaldo can tell that he's trying to hide the anxiety in his voice but he's not doing a very good job of it. He sighs, opening his eyes again and nods.

A smirk spreads over Renaldo’s face as he nudges Matt's chin, prompting them to lock eyes. Then, without blinking, he brings his right hand up to his own mouth and licks a stripe along its side, catching a few drops of Matt’s cum on his lips.

“You’ll have to. But I promise there’ll always be a dressing room to fuck in.”