The call of the blankets was strong, but his bladder was louder. Pietros stumbled out of his warm bed at three in the morning, almost face planting on the floor as he disentangled himself from the blankets.

He had closed the door but not latched it, and it swung open silently. He almost walked past Barca without noticing him, but the hallway lamp was just bright enough that Pietros could see him. A lot of him. Apparently, Barca only wears pants to sleep, because he sprawled out on the tiny couch, a deeply tanned arm thrown over his eyes, shirtless. The multitude of fleece blankets Pietros offered him were either still draped over the back of the sofa or bunched around his waist. Saying it was his waist was too generous, more like his hips, the pants already draped low enough that he had to look away. Pietros didn't let himself stare for too long, but he got an eye full of the knit together muscles carved into his body with a heavy hand.

Pietros had seen Crixus and Spartacus shirtless half a dozen times, but they had never made the pit of his stomach somersault, nor did he feel the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch.

The steady rise and fall of Barca's abdomen was soothing, the sort of thing that belonged under the resting head of someone tangled in his arms.

Pietros' eyes widened at the intrusive thought, and he quickly walked to the bathroom, and when he came back, he hardly spared him a glance.

If he weren't so nervous at the notion, he would have been impressed with himself for already getting over Gnaeus completely, and ready for a new start with someone different.

The sofa was too small, but it didn't matter; he had couch-surfed for two years; this was by far one of the best places he had slept because of the food and company. So, when someone knocked on the door at seven in the morning, Barca wasn't surprised that half of his body slumped off the couch onto the floor.

Without thinking, he walked to the door, not remembering to put on a shirt. If it was the son of a bitch who had hurt Pietros, he would be getting an early morning surprise of a mouthful of broken teeth.

Barca liked this crowded little apartment with knick-knacks and personality hanging from the walls and the enormous windows that let in the morning light. He also liked the idea of waking up here again. The shower was running in the bathroom, as he walked by, alerting him of Pietros' location.

He peeked through the peephole and was relieved but also a little disappointed.

Yawning, he pulled open the door to show a tiny middle-aged white woman whose eyes were positively bugging out of her head as she took in the person before her. Barca leaned against the doorframe, rubbing his eyes.

Maybe putting on a shirt would have been a good idea, Barca thought to himself drily as she continued to gape at him.

"Good morning," he tried, voice rumbling with sleep. The woman seemed to shake herself and offered a fake smile; the sun had hardly risen.

"Good morning, are the girls or Pietros home?"

It is too early for this, Barca thought. On cue, Pietros scrambled across the house, peering over Barca's shoulder in the doorway.

"Oh, good morning Linda," he smiled, twisting himself under Barca's arm to get closer. He smelled like sage and soap.

"Hi sweetheart, I was just stopping by to check in on you,"

Barca blinked at Pietros. He was wearing a bathrobe—a fuzzy robe, with little clouds on it. Barca reached out and swiped away a clump of suds from behind Pietros' ear, frowning.

Pietros batted his hand away without breaking eye contact with the woman.

"Stew heard about the accident on the news and told me all about it, and I remembered you dated that boy for a while," she tsked her tongue and shook her head. "Just thought I'd come over and see how you're doing, you know since they haven't caught him yet,"

Maybe she said some other things too, but Barca was a little too interested in how close Pietros was standing to pay attention, his wild hair sparkling with product.

"Thank you, Linda. I really appreciate it. I'm doing fine. I've got my friends to look out for me,"

She glanced at Barca without a hint of subtlety. "Can't imagine anyone getting passed him," she commented, arching an eyebrow.

Pietros turned pink and coughed, a wolfish grin spreading over Barca's face.

"No one ever has," he replied. Linda pursed her lips and turned back to Pietros.

"All right honey, if you need anything at all, and I mean anything, just hop on over or give us a call, you hear me?"

"Yes, Linda, of course, and thank you,"

"Okay then, have a great day, you two," she started across the barren street, no doubt gearing up to call all of her friends and tell them what just happened. She came for gossip, and gossip she had.

Pietros reciprocated the sentiment and then closed the door, his forehead resting against the wood, sighing long and hard.

"You're ridiculous," Pietros says incredulously, staring at the massive man before him. The words could have been taken in offense, but the small smirk of wonder at the corner of his mouth told Barca otherwise.

"I should have waited for you to open the door instead of doing it myself," Barca put together slowly, voice still rough with sleep as Pietros continued staring at him.

"No, I don't mind, but," he inhaled and picked up his head, turning to face Barca. "For the next six months, every time I see her, she's going to ask me," he lifted his voice in a high pitch imitation" 'where's that handsome friend of yours,' and I just don't know how I can handle that,"

"So," Barca's wolf grin started to grow again. "You think I'm handsome?"

Scoffing, Pietros rolled his eyes, hustling to the kitchen. Barca followed with no hesitation.

"I was quoting what she's inevitably going to say,"

"Right. But it wouldn't hurt to admit it though,"

"Admit what?" Pietros feigned innocence.

Barca hummed, shamelessly admiring the way Pietros' body stretched as he reached for the mug cabinet.

"If it helps, I think you're absolutely gorgeous,"

Pietros whirled.

Barca refused to let himself get anxious about the possibly ENORMOUS mistake he could have just made. If he was a master of one thing in this lifetime, it was definitely not subtlety.

The flush on his face was visible, a prideful feat for Barca, considering how dark Pietros' skin was.

His mouth popped open, looking for the words. "You're impossible," he muttered instead, turning back to the coffee maker. Barca was still shirtless, much to Pietros' distraction.

When the blush was controlled, and his mind leveled out, he tossed a glance over his shoulder.

"I hope the couch didn't treat you too horribly,"

Barca was in the kitchen with him, leaning against the end of the counter, mindlessly playing with a carved wooden horse that was left on the counter amidst a pile of mail and the rejected contents of three girls' purses.

"It treated me fine," he frowned at the little carving. "Did Agron make this?"

"Yeah, he said his dad always made little carvings for his friends' houses, it's a German Saxon thing, apparently. No one will attack the house because the inhabitants are friends with the people 'east of the Rhine' or something like that. I thought it was cute,"

Barca grunted, walking farther into the kitchen and stretched up to put the little figurine on top of the cupboards. When he settled back down on the floor, he was a lot closer than Pietros thought he'd be. He still smelled like laundry detergent and leather; his bare skin radiated warmth.

Pietros waited for himself to freeze, for his body to start fight or flight, to be intimidated by the sudden closeness by someone larger than him. He waited for his hands that were measuring out the coffee grounds to get shakey, waited for his spine to prickle and for the mental excuses to get away to flood his mind.

Nothing happened.

His mind didn't scream to duck away as Barca stayed less than three inches from him, peering at all the plants from the hanging basket, or when he shifted and brushed Pietros' arm to look out the window above the sink.

Pietros had been scared for so long. The fear started with Gnaeus' reactions, then Gnaeus' actions, then Gnaeus himself. It morphed from the monster into people that resembled the monster, their cadence, the way they walked, the way they held themselves.

Barca set off none of the alarms.

Everything about him screamed that he was a threat, a predator, someone to shrink away from like his presence would scorch the skin.

But as his arm brushed up against Pietros' again, not an accident this time, Pietros didn't feel in danger, or hunted, or burnt.

Stars above, it was so liberating not to feel scared anymore. It wasn't just the absence of fear; it was the flutter against his ribs and something warm in his stomach that positively sang under the attention of Barca.

Pietros' hands rested on the counter, the ugly bracelet of green and blue bruises on full display. Barca's hands were rough and calloused as he slid his palm down Pietros' arm, circling the injury with his fingers. They wrapped around his wrist perfectly, ring finger and thumb overlapping as he carefully extended Pietros' arm, bringing it into the light. He didn't say a word about the ugly, mottled colors marring his skin or his nails that had been chewed ragged from stress.

Pietros remembered how big Barca's hands were from the first time he had met the giant, just as gentle as that day.

Pietros' skin hummed as Barca's fingers slipped from his wrist and slid up his palm, thumb brushing against the meat of his hand and threaded their fingers together. The morning light streaked into the kitchen, dappling Barca's face and making his eyes shine gold while he raised their twined fingers to his lips. Heart stuttering in his throat and every ounce of his awareness focused on Barca, impossibly careful lips touched the ring of purple. Pietros' breathe, he didn't even remember inhaling, left him in a shaky sigh.

The fingers of his other hand, just as warm and rough, traced the edge of Pietros' jaw, thumb pausing under his bottom lip, resting on the side of his neck.

The memory of the night before heated Pietros, how strong his hands were that kneaded his back and how smooth Barca's cheek was against his own, the feather-light kiss he put on the corner of his mouth that wasn't really the corner of his mouth.

The thumb moved, the tiniest swipe over his bottom lip, and Pietros' mouth parted, a little involuntary.

Barca watched it all, pupils dilated. He didn't pounce, didn't reach out to take more, his fingers didn't tighten their hold, and he didn't devour him.

Pietros could hardly remember the first time Gnaeus kissed him. Wine and vodka soured the night into abstract shapes and slurred speech. Frat parties had never agreed with Pietros, and their first night was no different.

Gnaeus was the farthest thing from Pietros' mind as Barca repeated the movement, everything about him slow and unrushed, knuckles scarred from hundreds of fights rested harmlessly on Pietros' skin.

One time, Pietros had watched Barca and Crixus spar. Both men were imposing; every movement Barca made was quick and furious, perfectly measured, and coldly calculated.

But none of that reflected here. He waited for Pietros to lead, to object the touch, to step forward or backward.

The curiosity from the night before was hardly satiated as Pietros laid his free hand on Barca's chest, muscles as warm and hard as he had thought, a thrill rang through his body.

Barca didn't kiss like he fought, and it was effectively melting Pietros.

Warm warm warm, warm like the sunshine that fell through the window and splashed across their faces. His lips weren't as rough as his hands, but just as persuasive. So slow it was almost infuriating, the fingers on his chin tilted his head up, his other hand was brought up and over Barca's shoulder, lazily drawing them closer, the pressure on his hand only strong enough to guide the stretch. Pietros' body buzzed, nerves tingling, and his fingers instinctively curled around the hand still in his hold. He needed to breathe, but the only thing that existed anymore was Barca's cunning mouth and the warm expanse of his chest pressed against Pietros.

Unhurriedly, Barca pulled back, letting his forehead rest against Pietros', who took a moment to suck in a lungful of air, air that smelled like Barca.

His head spun a little, and he couldn't keep the giddy smirk off his face.

"I still won't admit it, your charms don't work on me," he whispered, his voice betraying him at how breathless he sounded.

Barca laughed, the delightful sound rumbling under Pietros' hand and through the arm draped over Barca's shoulder. Everything was still so warm and thick and sweet like honey.

He muttered something about how he might have to try harder, but Pietros was already distracted at the delicious weight of Barca leaning against him, smiles kissed off, and attentions lackadaisically pulled away the longer they stood twined in each other's' hold. The morning tasted almost as sweet as Barca, the promise of a good day nearly as gentle as the tongue tracing the seam of his lips.

Pietros' phone went off, clattering loudly on the counter, startling them both.

Taking a step back, Pietros pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, unable to fight the grin that was curling his lip. Barca let him go, only allowing his fingers trail down his arm for a second. Leaning fully against the dishwasher, he watched Pietros pick up the phone and then needing to turn around when his cheeks reddened after noticing Barca watching him.

Barca smiled, a ballooning feeling in his chest demanded to be felt.

"Hello?" Pietros said as levelly as he could manage, licking his lips.

"Hey, how was your night?" Sibyl's voice floated out of the phone.

"Great, how was your first night at the ruins?"

"Nope, no deflecting, the Aztecs can wait, they haven't gone anywhere in five hundred years, they can suffer through to the end of this conversation. Where did you go last night? Your mom's?"

"No, actually, I stayed home," he could hear the growl starting in her throat, and he hurried to continue. "But I wasn't alone; I had a friend spend the night,"

"Nasir?"

"Um, no," Pietros stuttered, glancing over his shoulder at a smirking Barca.

"You don't have any other friends, Pietros," Sibyl warned.

"Excuse you; I do, he's a friend from my self-defense class, Barca."

"Oh," Sibyl paused. He could hear the other girls talking in the room.

"Wait, the huge guy that you paired with on the first day of class? Spartacus' friend?" Mira called out.

"Yeah, him,"

Two muttered seconds of deliberation passed between the three girls, and they were happy with his answer.

"Anything of note happen?" Naevia shouted, her voice warped by the connection.

"No," Pietros lied through his teeth. "Nothing exciting happened, you guys missed out on nothing but couscous and Linda being snoopy again,"

Mira's laugh was muffled. "She probably wanted to borrow a cup of sugar and get Barca's number,"

Pietros laughed with them, a vicious sort of secret pleasure curling in his stomach like a content cat. He could feel Barca's heavy eyes on the back of his head, and he could still taste him on his tongue.

"Alright, I've got to make breakfast, I'll talk to you guys later, alright?"

"Okay, we'll call you tonight. Bye, we love you,"

"Love you all too," Pietros waited until they hung up before setting the phone down.

"Your friends really love you, don't they?" Barca said, closer to Pietros than he thought, twitching a bit at the sound of his voice.

"Yeah, we've only known each other for four years, but it feels like we were friends in our past lives,"

Barca was close enough now that the heat radiating off of his bare chest could be felt through the fleece of his bathrobe. It was a startling realization to say the least, when he remembered that he was wearing nothing but his bathrobe. He had been rushed from the shower, no time to grab anything but the robe.

He quickly sidestepped a confused Barca.

"I need to go put on clothes," he said, somehow having trouble meeting Barca's eye.

The giant hummed, no doubt thinking of how to use that to his advantage.

Pietros met Barca's darkened eyes and felt the squirming warmth in his stomach, and he entertained the idea of walking back to him for two seconds.

Clothes, a voice that sounded suspiciously close to Sibyl's growled in his head, and he sighed.

"There's still time for that later," he grumbled, and to his complete and utter horror, he said it out loud. Barca heard, eyes widening.

"CLOTHES!" he squeaked, turning bright red, and he almost ran to his room.

Barca leaned back against the counter and blew out an unsteady breath. He hadn't bargained for this much when he had followed Pietros home, but he certainly wasn't going to complain at the turn of events. Pietros had caught and held his eye for weeks, but he had never really entertained the idea of pursuing anything.

And now, it was shockingly difficult to think of anything else. Barca licked his lips and tasted him, he inhaled and could smell him still from where he had pressed up against his chest, and his fingers tingled from the softness of his skin.

There was a sharp knock at the door.

Barca idly remembered something his mom used to say about interruptions in threes as he pushed off the counter and walked to the door. He glanced through the peephole and saw a police officer and a man in a suit.

I really should have put on a shirt, he hissed to himself and opened the door.

"Hello, sorry to drop in on you so early in the morning, is Pietros Majana home?"

He absorbed the surprised looks of the officer and the other man gave him, and he refused to do anything but stand with squared shoulders in front of the door.

"Yes," he answered slowly. He had only lived here for a short time, and he had never had a face to face interaction with the American Police before. But he had also grown up a gay boy with no verbal filter and a propensity for violence in a country that disliked all three of those things, so he didn't trust the police for a second, and continued standing in the doorway.

"What is this about?"

"We'd like to talk with him a little bit more about what happened Thursday the 26th,"

Still standing in the door, he turned his head over his shoulder. "Pietros?" he called out, and two seconds later, his fuzzy head popped out of the hallway. He paled at the sight of the police.

It really wasn't any of Barca's business to listen in on the conversation he was having with the detective, so he took a few minutes to get ready in the bathroom while they talked. But, he couldn't hide in the bathroom all day either, so he found himself leaning against the flower-patterned couch in the living room while the detective and Pietros spoke in the kitchen. The officer lagged back in the living room and tried to strike up a conversation with Barca, who was too worried about Pietros to answer more than a few words at a time.

"So, how do you know Pietros?" the officer was young, he looked more equipped to play an officer on television than to be one in real life.

"I teach self-defense down at the 'Rebels' studio downtown."

"Oh, and he's one of your clients?"

"Yeah,"

"How long have you known him?

Barca paused to count back the months and stole a glance at Pietros. "I'd say about six months, give or take,"

"Did you know his ex, Gnaeus?

"No," he left the part out about how he would like nothing more than to kick him so hard in the stomach that he'd have Barca's shoe sole imprinted on his spine.

"Do you think he was hiding the abuse from you?"

"Absolutely not, we aren't close enough to talk about that sort of thing," Barca admitted, even though it tasted bitter. "He's not ashamed of it; it was just never any of my business,"

The blond-haired officer digested the words, eyes wandering over the colorful paintings on the wall and knick-knacks cluttering up shelves and tabletops. Barca seethed at the thought of Officer Calhoun finding all of this as adorably charming as he did.

"Did you ask you to stay here with him because he was scared?" He didn't even look at Barca as he spoke, eyes focused on the Aztec mask hanging off the wall to his right, mouth open in a curling smile and hollow eyes that looked like they were going to swallow the officer whole.

"No. A mutual friend suggested it, and we both agreed it would be a good idea. Pietros would never ask anyone for help,"

"What does that mean?"

"Pietros will never admit that he's scared. Never. He's too stubborn for that," Try as he might, Barca couldn't keep the fondness out of his voice. The blue-eyed officer cocked his head at the giant; somehow, it wasn't clicking in his mind.

"And you stayed here, no strings attached?"

Barca bristled, and Pietros' sake only, he kept the hostility of his tone one step below caustic. "Well, he did cook for me," he growled.

"Uh-huh," Calhoun nodded, scribbling something down in his little notebook. Barca wanted to snatch it out of his hand and rip it up while he watched, but settled for clenching his fists.

"Do you have a better reason for me to stay here?" He questioned, sauteeing his words in some of his cold, dangerous Carthage warning. "I don't like seeing the people I care about bleeding and crying,"

Calhoun had the good sense to pause his writing and throw a glance at the giant that was fixing him under a glare.

"I-" he coughed into his hand. "Uh, no, I don't think that I do,"

"Barca?" Pietros called out from across the apartment, pulling Barca's attention away from the officer who he had rightfully intimidated. He walked to the kitchen, refusing the show the tension in his shoulders, and sat next to Pietros at the kitchen table.

From their corner cage, Jupiter whistled at him.

"I'm Detective Alvez from Los Lunas PD, nice to meet you," the detective, a wiry man with crinkled gray eyes stuck out his hand to Barca.

"Barca Wahasha," the man's grip was firm but quick.

"Barca Wahasha?" He raised an eyebrow, "the professional fighter?"

"Uh, yeah," Barca rubbed the back of his neck. This was not the right time to be meeting a fan, but the detective just smiled.

"I guess I don't have to be that worried about your safety anymore," he joked.

"I won't let him get hurt," Barca responded seriously, catching Pietros' honeyed eyes.

The corners of his mouth crept up in a little smile as he blushed, glancing at the wall.

Barca liked the idea of sticking around to keep his promise.