"Et tu, Brute?"
The voice seemed to come from everywhere- far off, and yet so horribly close and cold. It was empty. An empty, lost sound which found its way to his waiting ears with an awful distance, circling his mind over and over. Caesar's corpse slid to the ground, tunic stained a deep sanguine. Had it truly been only a few days before when the two of them had been speaking so cheerfully together? A mere moon since they had last shared each other's bed? His face had been so bright and lively then; so full of brilliance and happiness. Now, the cadaver was a mere glimpse of the lover Brutus had known.
Was this all worth it?
A small flash, dulling his vision, and he found himself standing in a disjointed circle amongst the other conspirators. Their hands were drenched in blood. His stomach churned, remembering the feel of Caesar's veins pumping against his skin as they became intimate. The veins were now turned out, exposed, splattered against his betraying palms.
It had to be worth it.
A man approached him. Brutus obviously recognized him—he had met him on many occasions, but had never taken much interest. Their eyes met in a dazzling stupor, pupils dilating and muscles freezing still. Antony stared at him for much a longer time than having done with the others, lips parted the slightest bit, breath coming out in deep, embracing gusts, which were so heavy that Brutus could feel them against his perspiring skin. He could feel heat rush to his cheeks and downwards as he recognized this beautiful man in a new light. Their palms met, the caked blood on his fingers rubbing off and painting the anxious man's with that gorgeous crimson. They seemed enticed in each other's presence, eager to remain there for an eternity to simply stare into each other's eyes. But each moment led to the next, and Antony knew he must move on to the next conspirator, thus reluctantly tearing his gaze and hand away, muttering a similar greeting as he had to the others.
Then, a similar flash, and he was walking past Antony at the funeral. The crowd was wild after his speech, and he felt confident of their victory. But, as he glanced up to meet Antony's eyes for a split, longing second, he noticed a fierce sparkle there. His stomach dropped. Antony was determined to win the people over, and to cast the conspirators off. How could he have allowed this to happen? Why had he gone first? Oh, the understanding came as such a horrid strike that it would pain him so deeply for ages. That love—that shared, glorious love that he had found in his eyes before—had seemed to vanish utterly.
As he was looking away, a hand reached out to stroke Brutus's arm. He stopped, electricity seeming to flow through his bicep and throughout his body, striking him with bumps and shivers. That was a touch that he recognized. There was no need to call attention to the action; no point in confusing the crowd with a random act of love which would likely be condemned. They both knew that there would be no use in Brutus staying. The mob would be loyal to Antony after his speech; it was true and obvious. Brutus could tell that Antony wished it could be different. That they could agree and rule Rome in the way that the people would want, as true and noble men. But there was no way of that outcome. It was an idiotic fairytale that would never come true.
He knew he could have Antony's speech taken away in a moment's decision. If he desired it to be so, Brutus could make him absent for a small time so as not to sway the crowd's judgment to the wrong direction; could even kill him, too, and be done with the opposition completely. The mob would not object; not now, at least, and not the majority of them.
Though there were so many options—so many opportunities and ways in which he could fill the hole Antony was about to kick him into- Brutus couldn't bring himself to stop the man he found he truly loved. A sick knot tightened itself in his stomach. There would be war, death, sadness, and despair. It could all be stopped—or, at least, postponed and simmered down—if he just killed Antony now. Even though he and the conspirators had spoken of how pointless and idiotic it would be to end Antony, it would be better than having to steal Rome back through pain and misery. But a deep knowing radiated from his dismayed heart. There was no way that he could do it. He loved the man too much.
At last, Antony went on, having only paused for a second or two to stroke Brutus's arm in that sweet, loving way. Tears brimming in his eyes, Brutus forced himself to walk forward at a fast trot.
The next time he saw his lover, he knew it would be as an enemy.
The last flash, bringing him back to his painful reality, blood trickling out of his mouth, Strato holding the sword still in his trembling hands. Never again would he hear the honey-like sound of Antony's voice; nevermore would the touch of his hand be rested upon his arm. His heart broke, but he knew that this was for the best; that death would await him no matter what, even with his lover as their enemy. He longed to see his handsome face again; to feel that warm, damp breath against his cheek.
It hadn't been worth it. Not at all.