this one is for satari because i was really liferuiny earlier. i read wikipedia for like two hours for you so be grateful

"I'm surprised you aren't playing the King of the Saturnalia this year," Alit says, palming an apple from a nearby gilded bowl and taking a large bite.

"Oh," his prince says, waving dismissively and giving a rueful chuckle, "my advisors have... advised me not to anymore. They say I'm too old for such foolishness to be seen in an office so solemn as mine."

"Mmm," Alit says, mouth full of apple. "I seem to recall them advising you so for the past... three years now?" He swallows. This is Alit's favorite time of year - a time when everyone in the Empire loosens up a little, when the candles are lit and the gifts are given and everyone has some fun for a while. When they let his prince race him head-to-head in the ceremonial games and it won't be a crime to actually try to win. "Why the change of mind this year?"

His prince strolls over to the thick curtains closing the innermost of his private chambers away from the rest, draws them, and dismisses his last remaining servant for the afternoon, ordering him to join the "holy festivities" outside lest he be punished by the god for not observing the rites. Alit smothers a snicker. "Well," his prince says, shutting the curtains again, "there are younger men who'll probably give more amusing orders than I at the feast. Besides, truth be told, I was getting tired of it."

"Yeah, giving nonsensical orders to watch everyone hasten to perform them seems a little too close to your normal duties," Alit says, with a wide and daring grin. The best part, however, about this time of year is that slaves are allowed to speak freely to freedmen. Even to their own masters. Even to their princes.

Luckily, his prince has a sense of humor even year-round - at this impudence, he bursts into laughter. "Well said!" he chuckles, and then looks around himself - "Ah, wait, I'm forgetting myself!" He scoops up the gilded bowl and a white linen towel, draping the towel over an arm and bowing low. "At the great Saturnalia, the servants are served," he says, his lapis lazuli eyes sparkling even as he puts on a mock-grave tone, lifting the bowl up. "Which of these seasonal delicacies would it please my lord to sample?"

Alit draws out a long hum, tracing his fingers over an apple, a bunch of grapes, a rind of aged cheese. "I choose..." His hand slides past the bowl entirely, to cup his prince's strong chin. Alit's grin widens. So do his prince's eyes. "The finest of them, of course."

(Ah, yeah, the great Saturnalia. When the servants are served, and the masters mastered.)

Heedless of the fact that this might be one liberty which transgresses the bounds of the festival, Alit draws the other man closer and presses his lips to his, tasting olive oil and cinnamon and traces of the sandalwood incense from the temple where they'd burned their offerings a few hours ago. Alit fights in the games again tomorrow - he can't wait another day, another year for this opportunity to present itself again.

Their lips part, and his prince whispers, heated, "I thought you'd never ask," and returns the kiss tenfold. The bowl clatters to the floor.

They part again. "Your retainers are gone for the night, aren't they?" Alit asks, barely bothering to pull away far enough to ask at a reasonable distance.

"To a man," his prince replies, curling his fingers tighter into Alit's shoulder, and Alit brushes aside some of his mane of golden-tawny hair to see his eyes better in the candle-light, now that the sun is beginning to set in earnest.

Alit mimics his prince's high tone from before: "To a man, what?" The two of them can barely suppress laughter - the wine from earlier festivities must be going to their heads.

His prince grins and inclines his head a little bit. "To a man... my lord."

Yes, Alit thinks, as their lips meet again and hands begin roaming, this really is the best time of year.