Title: Venus Going Down, or Mars
Pairings/Characters: Max and Crassus
Rating: K. This might be the cleanest thing I've ever written.
Notes: My love for Max and Crassus is irrational.
Max tosses a sword at Crassus with careless grace. "You ever spar with Father?" he asks, cracking his neck side to side.
Crassus looks at him dubiously. "Some."
Max grins and says, "All right. If we're to be on the front line there, we need to know what we can do together." He unsheathes his own gladius and assumes a neutral guard position.
Crassus looks from his sword to Max's. "Here? Now?"
"Yep," Max says, cheerful, and rushes at Crassus. He manages to get his gladius unsheathed in time and parries, but only barely. Max narrows his eyes; all good cheer and cockiness drain out of his features, and only coldly analytical determination is left. "Footwork," he barks, and slashes his gladius low at Crassus belly.
Crassus blocks, parries, attacks, and the fight goes on. Slowly, Crassus gains his footing. The drill is familiar, one that is taught to all boys in Antillus, but Max makes the rough chops seamless and before Crassus knows it, he has spun into another drill, and another, and another. Crassus is struck by how eerily similar this is to sparring with Father. Max could be Father: he moves like Father, and his sword is as fast and as decisive as Father's is. But Crassus knows how to fight this—Max might be a juggernaut, who crushes all in his sight, but Crassus is faster, lighter, quicksilver.
"Good," Max says, panting slightly. "Good. Faster this time," and they go at it again.
And Crassus feels a blooming in his chest, a stupid, misguided sort of pleasure that he should be beyond feeling because he and Max have been estranged for years. He can't help it, though. Max has always been his big brother.