Quick Author's Note: So apparently I mixed up some of the canon dialogue. Um. Creative license?
Tell me of your gods, Agron said, and drew his fingers down Nasir's spine, sighed into the curve and heat of his body and felt the thickness of the space between them inside his bones. Nasir said, Let me tell you about godlessness, and brushed a kiss against the corner of his mouth with his finger tracing the space between Agron's eyebrows.
What comes before are thumb and forefinger gripping Nasir's chin, prompting his face to a slight incline left, then right while his eyes remain fixed on the floor. What comes before is gooseflesh and, Very pretty, indeed, and water that washes away the odor of rich oils but allows the ghost of a sweaty touch to remain. What comes before is silence and obedience and learning to survive, no matter cost.
What comes before is the dull clash of swords, old and long-since used, Gisila's skirts swirling high in the cold wind as she dodges Duro's aim. What comes before is roaring laughter and farm chores and Da smacking Agron upside the head, telling him to watch out for whose sons he seduces. What comes before is family and honor and very quickly finding himself without either.
It starts with, And how do you propose we train this wild little dog. It starts with a glare. It starts with wine and talk of brothers and a blade through a Roman soldier and a name reclaimed.
It starts with fire.
Nasir said, I want to know you. Come here and we can make weather together. I can be a cyclone and you a rainstorm and we can collide and stick together into one great beautiful destroyer of worlds. And Agron touched his ribs one by one and said, I want you under my skin. I want you to buzz inside me like a locust on summer's last breath.
For Agron it happens the first time Nasir defies him. His eyes are upon the man for many weeks before, small whisper of, A dog bites once, ringing in his ears. He desires him, yes, golden brown skin and features sharp enough to cut stone, but it happens when the fucking Gaul gasps, The boy, Nasir, and dark eyes refuse to meet his. It happens when the depth of his heart is revealed, when he proves his own man with his own choices. It happens when Agron realizes this may be the last time he lays eyes upon him, and the notion is unbearable.
For Nasir it happens upon reunion, when darkness creeps up in his eyes and the blistering agony of a Roman sword through his gut still blazes without cease. It happens when gentle fingers raise his chin, when Agron's face swims in the darkness, and though he cannot know if such a vision is reality or hallucination, relief overtakes him nonetheless before he is consumed by murky dreams.
Later, Give me a sword, upon his lips, he would be at Agron's side, regardless of the deep ache that still consumes him. The possibility of shared affections does not occur to Nasir, lessons of ignored desires taught early and taught well, but then the warmth of Agron's hand rests upon his cheek followed by mouth upon lips.
Joy at seeing the Syrian returned from death's clutches is too great, Agron cannot help himself. He has longed for this for weeks, only to nearly lose Nasir forever before he could act upon desire. With his mind a blank canvas but for thoughts of vengeance these many months since he was robbed of Duro, it is a welcome reprieve to put such anger aside, to at last close the distance and feel the peace that lingers there.
Unsure, Nasir does not allow his lips to respond.
Let me tell you stories, Nasir said, and washed away the false name Venus, leaving Ishtar forever imprinted upon Agron's gasping lips, trailing Mammetum down his throat as he moved within. Agron said, You cannot be but the gods' favorite, and buried Sjöfn in the scent of his hair, traced a prayer to Freyja in the curving grooves that ran down his spine.
When he is fourteen, sharp tile bites at his knees when Roman hands find his shoulders, forcing him to kneel, yet it is a sting barely felt when ordered to find the hem of Dominus' robes with light, trembling fingers. When he is fourteen, he moves amongst Rome's elite, serving platter or wine jug in hand, accepting inevitability when one pauses him in his task with rich, ringed fingers trailing down his chest or through his hair. When he is fourteen, he learns what it means to be denied choice.
Agron's lips against his, he decides, is nothing of the same. The former gladiator is a friend before anything that may follow, and he will not force what Nasir does not desire. Words on the subject need not be broached – somehow in his heart he knows this.
So he decides because he can. Because he has a choice.
When the arena at Capua smolders and Agron returns to Vesuvius, Nasir has long-since resolved his own intent. He wants to devour him, to consume him as the flames did the arena, as Tiberius did Nasir for years too long. Smiles and laughter ringing out, bright and clear, and the sweet taste of Agron's lips against his, Agron's hands cupping his jaw, his own fingers brushing across his warrior's cheeks, pulling him down to his mouth. This is, if nothing else, the reclaiming of an identity he was always meant to have.
You are as the wolf, said Nasir, smile ghosting through the hiss that emerged its twin. Agron laughed through breathless gasps, bowed his head and enfolded it beneath Nasir's chin. He bit down on golden brown flesh and said, And you are as a feral cat. Nasir hissed again and said No, I am a fox by midnight and a sheep when it snows.
This is as the world is set to rights, he thinks, with German tongue filling his ears and his own coat covering Nasir's shoulders as a bewitching sight before him. You have done the impossible, the Syrian says, and Agron's heart threatens to split open with joy as the distance between them seems to close on its own, as though by some manner of witchery.
The gods favor me, little man, he declares, for in that moment he feels he could ascend to the heavens and be greeted as brother with loving welcome. He does not mean to offend, nor does he believe such an endearment to be truly taken as a slight, for Nasir defends his stature with a smile that would bring ocean tempests to a halt.
Du fotze! in his ears make him think of Raban and sunlight rising on a new world. He thinks of Anselm and golden hair and dimpled cheeks. He thinks of Haimo and, fucked if this makes me his woman. He thinks of Leuthar's fist crunching on his cheek and laughter and the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He thinks of Ma and Da and Reiner taking Ishild's hands in his and anger when Leuthar says it's just that he's less embarrassing than a sheep but he's fucked one of those, too.
The way Nasir's grin feels crashed against his own is worth all that.
Agron said, You look like starlight, and wiped his thumb across the crease in Nasir's forehead, tracing the heavenly bodies he found there. Nasir said nothing, but wrapped his arms around him and whispered the wonders of the universe as he fought to stay under his skin. The comets keep breaking, Agron said, reversing me out of my body.
The wound is Roman blades and hisses of battle.
The wound is choice and consequence.
The wound is identity reclaimed.
The wound is hours of sitting against the wall, food and water a thing of little account.
The wound is Naevia and Medicus and long stretches of the black abyss.
The wound is proof of every continued breath he takes.
The wound has not broken open in two weeks.
Passionate kisses and whispers of shared affections have passed between them freely and with great enthusiasm, but it is to the sword that Agron's mind falls when Nasir declares himself fit. A thing known to all, he says, confusion evident in his brow, for many days have passed since you resumed training in the yard. Nasir laughs, glances quickly down the corridor to where the Roman woman is held, and pulls Agron to him. You mistake meaning, he says. There is something yet you and I have not shared.
A moment passes for words to find significance, then he finds himself slammed against the wall, Agron's mouth hot against his.
Thank you, Nasir said to no one, after, the night spilling from his mouth like sand, and Agron drew their names in gentle curves in the space between his heart and ribs with quiet fingernails.