"First position." Oenomaus' voice rang out and after that, the clashing of wooden sword against wooden sword. Both were sounds Agron remembered well from his days within the ludus, but this time, he heard them within the walls of the rebellion's sanctuary. And instead of wielding his own training weapon with the rest, he only observed as one who had already learned all he could from the former Doctore. His eyes were on one man in particular among those who were now under Oenomaus' tutelage; a certain Syrian who, despite all worry, insisted he was well enough to take up the sword again and train. This would be his test to see if words rang true; if his body endured a day beneath Doctore's training, then he was well enough.

It was with a grin that Agron watched Nasir fight against one of his kin. The German man outweighed Nasir and possessed more strength, but the Syrian was fast on his feet. So fast that he made quick work of the man, laying him flat on the ground within a moment. "You learn quickly," Oenomaus observed, looking down at Nasir. Agron could see his Syrian was trying not to look pleased with himself. "Agron," came Doctore's voice again, and the gladiator glanced up, both eyebrows raised. "Give him a challenge."

The grin on Agron's face widened. "Yes, Doctore," he said, tone laced with amusement. Agron pushed himself off the pillar on which he had been leaning and descended the stairs, taking up the wooden sword offered to him by one of his kin. He met Nasir's eyes and there was a secret, silent exchange between the two of them. This had swiftly become a contest, though what the winner would receive remained yet a mystery. It would be decided when one of them was forced to yield to the other.

"First position," came the command again, and Agron's body immediately shifted. Automatically, as if he'd never left the sands of the ludus. It was a bittersweet reminder; the things he'd learned there had been invaluable, but ghosts yet lingered. Ones he wouldn't call to his side right then, though, not with Nasir so near and their competition just starting. No, he put that out of his mind. "Begin," Oenomaus instructed, and so they did. The first few blows were those choreographed. Those taught by the doctore. They came as easily and naturally to Agron as did his own breathing, but he could see Nasir thinking of them.

Agron would distract Nasir from those simple swings. The Syrian didn't need to think; he only needed to move, to react. And so, without warning, Agron deviated from what Oenomaus had taught and swung freely at Nasir. For a brief second, Agron thought he'd taken Nasir so off-guard that he might actually strike the other man, but that was proved false when the Syrian's wooden gladius shifted to block the attack. It was a natural defense. Done without thinking. That was what Agron wanted to see.

And so Agron lunged forward and began to swing his sword relentlessly. He was blocked at every turn and, soon, Nasir began pushing him back. That was when the cheering began; those watching started taking sides, started jeering and shouting commands to the two fighting, and it was like being in the arena again. Except that there were a few key differences. First, he fought against someone he loved. Second, he fought with a blade that could do no damage. Third, the audience thirsted not for his death, but for one of them to be made a fool of. And it wouldn't be Agron. Or at least that was what he decided.

He went harder. His skill with the sword was greater than Nasir's, no matter how hard the Syrian tried. But perhaps Agron didn't know his own strength, because when he brought his sword down and met Nasir's, the Syrian suddenly let out a cry of pain and clutched at his side with his free hand. Agron's sword arm immediately dropped and he reached out for the other man - and that was when he saw the grin on Nasir's face. In another second, his feet were swept out from under him and he was on his back in the sand, looking up into the dark eyes of the victor, whose wooden sword was pressed against Agron's neck.

Those around them roared with laughter, none more loudly than Agron's own kin. The gladiator couldn't help but join in, shaking his head. Nasir stepped back and offered his hand, and Agron took it, hauling himself to his feet. "I would have had you in a fair fight," he insisted, nudging Nasir in the chest with the tip of his wooden gladius while still holding onto the hand he'd taken.

"Would you have?" Nasir asked, the challenge still in his dark gaze. "I think not. I find advantage and take it. And would do in any fight."

Both Agron's eyebrows raised. He liked this confidence in the Syrian. He liked it very, very much. "We'll test it again some day," the gladiator said, his fingertips sliding along Nasir's forearm when finally they let go of one another.

Oenomaus spoke again. "Break for drink and rest. We will resume soon." At that, the crowd dispersed, milling toward the nearest sources of water. Both Nasir and Agron turned to do the same, though Agron let Nasir go ahead so he could hang back and have a word with the doctore.

"Your Syrian fights with skill," Oenomaus said, and Agron couldn't stop the proud grin that slipped onto his face. He watched Nasir as he stood in the back of the line for water, fascinated with everything he did. Even just standing there, Nasir was the most compelling thing Agron had ever seen. Oenomaus, with a smile, continued. "He is resourceful. That will serve him well."

"And so will your teachings," Agron then said, turning his attention to Oenomaus, "as they have served me." But his gaze was drawn back to Nasir, who now stood alone at the water, pouring himself a cup of it. Agron clapped Doctore on the shoulder in a short farewell and then strode forward to meet his Syrian, his steps quick. When he reached Nasir, he pressed up against his back and reached around him, wrapping his fingers around the handle of the jug Nasir still held. With that grip, Agron helped pour them both a drink, though most of his focus was on his other hand at Nasir's hip. His fingertips were slowly exploring Nasir's warm skin.

It was a good thing Agron too held the clay jug, because at the gladiator's touch, Nasir's hand faltered. How easy it was to undo him.

Agron spoke as if there was no tension between them. As if his hand wasn't dragging over Nasir's stomach and they weren't pressed close together. "Even Oenomaus praises your skill," he said conversationally. "It seems you have proved well enough to take up the sword again." Turning his head to the side, Agron brushed his lips against Nasir's temple. His wandering fingers stopped at the scar on Nasir's abdomen. "You have overcome a great wound, little man."

Abruptly, Nasir turned around to face Agron, his hand slipped out from under the other man's. "As I have overcome you in the sands," he said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Oh, he was far too pleased with himself.

"I will only fall victim to that trick but once," Agron said, leaning closer to Nasir. He pressed his hands against the tabletop behind the other man, trapping him in his arms. "And so your luck will run out."

Nasir laughed and slid his arms around Agron's neck, tilting his head up to nudge the gladiator's nose with his own. "Luck or not, I deserve reward for my victory." The Syrian's lips hovered close to Agron's, threatening to claim them in a kiss. Agron, impatiently, used tongue and teeth to catch Nasir's upper lip and tug on it.

"What would you have of me?" the gladiator asked as Nasir's body pressed closer, encouraged by that teasing bite.

They shared a gentle, slow kiss. "You know what I would have," the Syrian practically purred, and Agron was so distracted by his sweet tone of voice and even sweeter mouth that, for a moment, he blindly agreed, nodding and taking from Nasir another kiss. But then he realized what exactly the other man was implying, and he pulled back, brows drawing together.

"Nasir—" he began to protest, and on the tip of his tongue was the same worry he'd had since the Syrian had been wounded. But he wasn't allowed to speak it. Nasir's arms dropped from around Agron's neck. One hand grabbed the leather strap that crossed the gladiator's chest, pulling it and bringing Agron to his level, and the other pressed insistent fingers against the man's lips. Both Agron's eyebrows raised in surprise.

When next Nasir spoke, his words were firm. "If I am well enough to train," he stated, "I am well enough to lay with you."

Again, Agron began to protest, but his words faltered at the severe look on Nasir's dark features. "I will not hear you tell me otherwise," the Syrian said. Slowly, he slid his fingertips from Agron's lips and then kissed them quickly, to stop any words falling from them. When Nasir pulled back, it wasn't very far, so that when he spoke their lips yet touched. "You have promises to keep, gladiator," Nasir whispered, voice low. "See them fulfilled in our bed tonight."

Agron could find nothing to say against the orders being given him. Concern for Nasir was slowly being overridden by desire to have that body naked and against his own, to have those limbs wrapped tightly around him and that voice, so firm and commanding at the moment, broken and whimpering in pleasure. The very thought drew a low growl from him, and he pressed his mouth hard against Nasir's in a short, rough kiss. "Tonight," he then agreed. Twice he had surrendered to Nasir that day. The Syrian's hand was wandering over Agron's chest, teasing lower, and the gladiator stopped it. "Enough," he said, meeting Nasir's gaze with his own and grinning. "Or I'll take you right here atop this table."

They were both tempted by the idea, but parted anyway, their minds filled with what would happen between them once darkness fell. Nasir disappeared into the sanctuary and Agron headed back toward the courtyard, where training had resumed. Minutes passed - Saxa and Nemetes fought and Agron was a happy spectator - and then something to steal away what would have been a night of great bliss entered the temple.

A hush fell over them all. Agron's eyes turned and there was Spartacus, dragging into the courtyard a woman in fine Roman dress. One with blonde hair and a belly full with child. Glaber's wife.

Agron could think of only one thing to say in response. "Fuck the gods."


Agron had one arm crossed over his chest, the other bent at the elbow so he could run his fingertips across his own bottom lip. It could have been a thoughtful gesture, had it not been for the hungry look in his eyes. He leaned against the wall in the corridor outside of where Glaber's woman was being kept, and his gaze was intent on the other man standing guard with him. Nasir, who didn't even know he was being so admired. Or perhaps that wasn't the right word. It was with more than admiration that Agron looked upon him.

The Syrian's eyes were closed, his head tilted back against the wall opposite Agron. In the silence, he heaved a deep breath and then yawned, lifting a hand to cover his mouth. All of this underneath Agron's watchful gaze. It wasn't until the gladiator spoke that Nasir opened his dark eyes. "Tired?" Agron asked, fingers still playing at his own lips. He could have been thinking about what those lips might have been doing, had the two of them not been set to this task.

Nasir seemed to be thinking the same thing. "Vigilance escapes me," he confessed, stepping away from the stone on which he'd been resting and stretching his arms over his head, "if only because my body had expected something to distract it from sleep."

As if Agron needed to be reminded. Finally he'd conceded to Nasir's wishes, finally he'd agreed that it was time but that time had been stolen from them once that Roman bitch had entered the sanctuary. And now that Agron had it in his head, the idea wouldn't soon leave. Never had he wanted Nasir more. Never had he more desired to see what the man would be like stretched beneath him.

The gladiator closed his eyes and took a steadying breath, but when he opened them again his yearning had not lessened. If only they could escape their duty. If only they could get someone else. But then again…. Agron turned his head from side to side and looked for shadows traveling the corridor, listened for the sound of other's voices, but he heard and saw nothing. He and Nasir were alone, save the woman kept prisoner in the next room. His gaze once again fell on Nasir, and a grin played at the corners of his mouth. "Then I will wake you," Agron said, striding forward and sweeping the Syrian into his arms.

Nasir's back was pressed against the wall again and Agron claimed his mouth in a kiss, and the moment their lips touched, the gladiator's hunger for the other man only intensified. Nasir responded in kind, his hand holding Agron's face close as he pressed forward into the kiss, and in that he begged for more. Agron was breathless; for the first time, they both knew what they wanted and they knew it was just within reach, and it made this taste all the sweeter. Sinking his teeth into the Syrian's bottom lip, Agron pulled back and reveled in the sound of Nasir's gasp. He surged forward for more, but suddenly there were hands pressed against his chest and he was pushed backwards.

What, was he teasing? Agron's lips curled in a smile and he opened his eyes to look at Nasir, the hunger still burning within their blue depths. His hand he kept wrapped around the back of the other man's neck, his fingertips playing at the sensitive skin and curling in the Syrian's long hair.

Nasir spoke. "We must wait," he said, "until Spartacus relieves us of charge."

Agron almost laughed. Wait? No, not now that he'd had a taste of what was to come. "Time moves too slowly," he said in a low voice, and still he smiled - because he could see the other man's resolve disappearing before his very eyes. And he was quickly proved correct.

"We must be quick, then," Nasir said, with a grin to match Agron's, and they crashed together once more. How quickly Agron had driven the sleep from Nasir with tongue and teeth. How very awake he seemed now, how very thirsty for all Agron would give him. How eager.

The Syrian's hand slid slowly down Agron's chest. Fingertips teased along the length of leather wrapped crossways over the gladiator's chest and then lower, lower - Agron pulled back from the kiss, his breath catching in his throat and a jolt traveling the length of his body as Nasir's hand disappeared between his legs. He leaned forward again blindly and his lips somehow found the other man's and he pressed harder, pressed closer, pushed his hips forward into the fingers that so teased him.

And then, suddenly, a voice. "This is how you stand guard?" Agron stepped back quickly and turned to see Mira not far away, looking upon them with an amused sort of expression. Agron's cheeks were hot and the rest of him hotter and he was at a loss for words. It was a difficult recovery to make, especially with the things Nasir's hand had been doing to him.

But the Syrian made attempt at an excuse. "Apologies," he said quickly. "We were…"

And Agron, quite unhelpfully, repeated, "Uh, we were…" He looked to Nasir, as if he'd somehow find what to say in that embarrassed, surprised expression. "We were… We were just…" Nothing came to him. He couldn't help it - his face split in a smile and he laughed. Ridiculous, the two of them being caught like misbehaving children, doing something they weren't supposed to. Nasir laughed in turn, and it drew a smile from the woman.

"Take to your bed," she said, a knowing look in her eyes. "I will assume watch over Ilithyia."

This woman was from the gods. Agron decided in that moment. With another glance at Nasir, he nodded in the direction of the exit, sending the Syrian on his way. The gladiator couldn't believe his fucking luck - that they should have this burden lifted from them and given permission to go do as they had planned. Agron turned and started down the corridor, but paused and turned to put his hand on Mira's shoulder. "Gratitude," he said with a secret grin, his eyes downcast, and with that, took the same path Nasir had to their bed.

And on that path, a trail of clothing was left. Agron came upon the first piece and picked it up before realizing it was Nasir's coat. Biting his bottom lip, Agron moved more quickly through the corridor, retrieving each piece of clothing as he went, and when finally he came to their bed, Nasir lay in it on his stomach, naked as the day he'd come into the world. Agron threw aside the clothes in his hands carelessly and strode forward, lowering himself onto the bedroll between Nasir legs. The Syrian stirred at the added weight, lifted himself up onto his elbows and looked over his shoulder at Agron, but the gladiator didn't meet his gaze. No, he was too busy watching his own hands as they slid up the back of Nasir's thighs.

With a grin and a growl, Agron leaned down and playfully sank his teeth into the flesh of Nasir's ass. A laugh escaped the Syrian, but it wasn't long before it was chased away by a low, sweet sound of pleasure. Agron's hands had moved to Nasir's ass, pressing against and squeezing it, and his mouth was otherwise occupied; he dragged his tongue slowly over the man's spine, and as he traveled up, his body slid against the other man's.

The scarce lamplight cast shadows over them. Agron wanted to find what was in the dark parts of the Syrian, taste what the light didn't reach, see if skin illuminated felt warmer under his lips. The gladiator's hands slid over Nasir's sides, lingering in the slight curve of his waist before fingertips mapped the ribs that revealed themselves as the Syrian stretched underneath the attention. That movement rubbed their bodies together and Agron was suddenly very aware that he was still clothed while Nasir was not, and that was a grievous crime. But he couldn't pull himself away quite yet. Not while Nasir was tilting his head back to make way for the gladiator's mouth. Not while Agron could still draw gentle moans from the other man with lips wrapped around a soft earlobe and tongue tracing its shape.

But Nasir was impatient. He turned around underneath Agron to lay on his back and press his hands against the gladiator's chest, and Agron would have taken the time to explore the front of him just as thoroughly as the back if the Syrian hadn't been pushing him, urging him to rise. "Stand," Nasir whispered, though there was a demand in his voice. Agron obeyed and looked down to watch as Nasir pulled the clothing from him, eager to find what was concealed. And when he did, he was quick to reach out and touch. His fingers closed around Agron's length and the gladiator made a short, pleased sound. Not long after he felt the touch of Nasir's lips on his flesh and his breath left him in a rush. So soft and warm and tight when they wrapped around him.

Nasir's mouth began to move at a fast pace. There was no build-up, no teasing; he swallowed Agron's flesh and seemed insistent on bringing pleasure to the gladiator as quickly as possible. In little time, Agron could feel his self-control slipping away so he reached out for it, grasping fingers finding Nasir's hair and staying his tormenting mouth. "Slowly," he said, looking down to meet the Syrian's dark gaze. Ever-stubborn, Nasir tried to resume that pace, but Agron's grip on his hair prevented it. With that grip, Agron began to guide Nasir's mouth. This was no longer the heated, rushed encounter in the hallway as they stood guard. They had the entire night to indulge, and Agron wouldn't have it end too quickly. He'd made a promise what seemed like a lifetime ago - that he would show Nasir how he felt slowly and thoroughly, and it was a promise he would keep, now that the time had finally come.

How easy it was to get lost in the things Nasir did with his lips and his tongue. Soon Agron had to tug on that hair again, this time pulling the other man's mouth away entirely. Agron lowered himself to the floor and knelt in front of Nasir. He drew the Syrian into his arms, and when they kissed, they also shared a pleased noise at the feeling of their bodies touching without any clothing to separate them.

Agron was breathless when the kiss ended. "Lay down," he said with a smile, and then shuffled on his knees to where he kept all of his belongings. He began digging through them, searching for something in particular.

"What are you doing?" Nasir asked, drawing Agron's gaze to him. The Syrian was on his side, his lean body on beautiful display, and it was all Agron could do not to abandon everything and take him right in that moment. He managed to refrain, and after a pause he remembered Nasir's inquiry.

Instead of answering, though, Agron composed himself and grinned. "On your stomach, little man," was his next order, and Nasir complied, though he did so with narrowed eyes, of course having noticed that his question had gotten no reply - and when he rolled over, Agron couldn't help but reach out and playfully smack his rear. Nasir's suspicious expression melted away with surprised laughter, and Agron continued in his search.

Soon, his fingers closed around a vial. Hiding it in his hand, he crawled back over to Nasir, straddling him and sitting on the back of his thighs. Before continuing, Agron leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss against the back of the other man's shoulder. "Now relax," he said, grazing the same skin he'd kissed with his teeth and then sitting up once more. Agron uncorked the vial and tilted it, and from its neck poured an oil. It fell between Nasir's shoulder blades first, and the Syrian jumped at the sensation, glancing behind at what was happening. Agron hadn't the presence of mind to tell the other man to turn back around; he was far too distracted by the way the oil slid down over Nasir's skin and pooled at the small of his back.

The vial was abandoned. Agron dragged his fingers through the oil, coating his hands in it and sliding them over Nasir's back. The Syrian's dark skin glistened, captured the flickering lamplight in a beautiful display, and Agron could have spent hours just touching him. But there were more pressing matters to attend to. Just as Agron had told him to, Nasir was relaxing underneath the gladiator's hands, and he only ever moved to sigh a happy sigh or stretch underneath the touch to encourage it. That was, until Agron's hands ventured downwards.

Because the oil had another purpose. It would ease the way, would make Nasir slick and ready for when the gladiator delved inside of him. There was little warning; Agron's fingertips pushed against that opening, teased it, pressed at it only to withdraw and then do it all again. The gladiator could see that Nasir's breath was coming faster; his back rose and fell with it, and every once in a while, a gasp escaped him. Agron's free hand still explored, sometimes tracing the bumps along Nasir's spine and sometimes caressing the curve of his ass. The Syrian parted his lips and started to speak, started to beg, and that was when Agron finally pushed his fingers inside. Whatever words Nasir had meant to speak turned into a breathless moan.

The rhythm was slow. Excruciatingly slow. Nasir's hips moved underneath Agron and he pushed back against those fingers in an attempt to pick up the pace, but the gladiator was determined to set the speed. He would control it and he would give it to Nasir faster when he thought it time to do so. It wasn't in that moment. No, because the Syrian hadn't yet come undone.

It wasn't long until he did, though. Nasir clutched at the blankets underneath him and buried his face in them, muffling the long, low, frustrated moan that was pulled from his throat. And then he said something, but it got lost in the folds of cloth. Agron leaned over the other man, though his fingers were still exploring and stretching him. "Say again, little man?" he said in a low voice, nudging Nasir's hair away from the back of his neck and pressing a kiss against the skin revealed. Again, those muffled words were lost to Agron. "Again," he repeated, and this time gently sank his teeth into the Syrian's skin.

"Faster," Nasir finally gasped, turning his head to the side. His eyes were tightly closed and his hands still clutched and pulled at the blankets. "Your touch drives me to madness."

And so Agron obliged him. The gladiator slid his mouth to Nasir's jaw, dragged along it before luring the other man's lips to his. Nasir twisted his upper half and pressed hard against the kiss and it was in that moment Agron abandoned the slow, leisurely pace. He pushed harder, delved deeper, and it wasn't long before Nasir could no longer kiss the gladiator; he could only cry out into the mouth pressed against his own, and Agron happily swallowed each and every sound, the very last one a protesting whimper when he withdrew his fingers from inside of Nasir.

But it was a protest short-lived. Gently, Agron helped Nasir to turn around and lay on his back; he would look into the Syrian's eyes when first he entered him. The gladiator used oil-slicked hands to stroke his own flesh, covering it in the fluid, readying it - and he was about to position himself to push inside of Nasir when suddenly he found himself on his back, the other man on top of him. There was a second of pure shock, and then Agron grinned. Nasir returned it in kind. "I have waited long enough," the Syrian said, reaching behind himself and wrapping his fingers tightly around Agron's length. The gladiator bowed his back, grabbing onto Nasir's hips as the tip of his cock was pressed against that opening. His grip tightened to the verge of bruising as the Syrian lowered himself onto it.

Their gazes were intent on one another. Agron had to fight the urge to close his eyes and throw his head back in pleasure, and the struggle showed on his face. He'd imagined this moment for so long. He touched himself thinking of it. But none of his imaginings even compared to the tight heat, to the pure fucking bliss that it was to feel Nasir wrapped tightly around him. Inch by inch, Agron's length disappeared inside of the other man, and every passing inch brought forth new gasps, new moans, new whimpers from both men. And when finally the gladiator was buried within his Syrian, they crashed together in a kiss, Agron sitting up and Nasir leaning down in the very same moment. Their arms wrapped tightly around one another and only when they had to pull away from the kiss to breathe did they begin to move.

It started slowly. Nasir still adjusted to Agron's length, his body gradually becoming more accustomed to it. But as time passed, the gladiator more easily slid inside of the other man, and the pace increased. They still held onto one another, still clung and breathed the very same air with their lips not an inch apart and their foreheads pressed together. Nasir rode Agron and with each thrust brought himself down harder on that length. Harder and harder until each time their bodies met Nasir let out a sharp groan and Agron struggled to catch his breath.

But Agron wanted to move. He wanted to do more than sit and watch as Nasir rode him, however wonderful a sight that was. Tightening his arms around the Syrian, Agron laid back onto their bed. He used his grip to pull Nasir forward slightly and then braced his heels against the floor, thrusting his hips up to slide his length back inside the other man. A short, breathless, surprised moan fell from Nasir's lips, and another when Agron thrust his hips up again, and again, and again. Nasir's hands, previously trapped between them, slid up over Agron's chest and his neck and into his hair, nails digging in slightly and fingers pulling the gladiator's lips into a desperate kiss. The kiss held even as Agron rolled the two over, the Syrian once again on his back on the floor and the gladiator above him. The rhythm of their bodies joining barely broke; the thrusting continued just the same: fast and deep.

Nasir broke from the kiss, tilted his head back, and Agron's lips dragged down over his chin and his neck, tasting the skin there. Every last gasp and moan from Nasir's throat vibrated against Agron's mouth, and it wasn't long before their numbers increased. Nasir's voice grew louder. Agron's pace was relentless; it gave the Syrian no time to breathe, no relief from the pleasure slowly building inside of him. The gladiator knew Nasir's release was near and he thrust toward it. He wanted it and he wanted to see it on the other man's expression, etched into every last plane and curve of his face.

A halted, shaking cry escaped Nasir's lips. Agron chased after it with his tongue and teeth, capturing the Syrian's bottom lip and tugging it into yet another kiss. But Nasir's body was tightening around Agron, his muscles tensing, and the gladiator couldn't miss what was to happen next. Pulling back from the kiss, he looked down for Nasir's face, but it was turned for him. Agron reached up and slid his hand into the other man's hair, cupped the back of his head, brought that dark gaze to his own. And when Nasir's release hit him, twisting his body and his features in pleasure, Agron was witness to it. More than that, he was marked by it as the Syrian's nails dragged over his back. The pain mingled seamlessly with pleasure.

Nasir's body trembling against his own drove Agron quickly toward his own release, one he'd been ignoring in favor of his Syrian's. But no longer. Every thrust pushed him closer to the edge, the impossible tightness of Nasir's body drawing it from him, until finally he came, a broken moan escaping him with every pulse of it. His hips did not cease their movement; they still pushed into Nasir with short, gentle thrusts, until the friction became too much and he had to pull away, though their bodies parting made them both gasp and hold fast to one another.

Agron lowered himself on top of Nasir, pressing his face against the man's collarbone as his muscles all relaxed, though once in a while one twitched briefly. They still touched one another, Nasir's fingers threading through Agron's hair and Agron's hand gliding over Nasir's side still slick with sweat and oil. With great effort, Agron lifted himself so their faces were once more level with one another, and after a few seconds of the two of them simply gazing at one another, both grinned slow, tired grins. Their lips touched in a gentle kiss, tongues lazily twining, and they tasted each other until sleep stole them away. Not another word passed between them that night, if only because everything had been spoken through their bodies: how good it had felt, how perfect it had been, and how they loved one another.


Agron pushed open the doors to the sanctuary and walked into it with hands empty. His blood rushed quickly through him; he heard it roaring in his ears and few other sounds penetrated them. The gladiator heard nothing of the questions asked by those surrounding him; he only sought to escape them all, to find a corner of the temple where he could be alone with his failings, but those that had been awaiting their return were insistent. A hand grabbed him by the arm and stopped him.

It was Nemetes. "Where are the weapons?" he asked. There was no malice behind the words, no tone meant to thrust blame upon Agron for the absence of sharpened steel, but still the gladiator threw off the German's hand as if the touch had meant to offend.

"There are no fucking weapons," he snapped, tasting his own blood in the words, and with that he ascended the stairs and disappeared into the temple, ignoring those that whispered and questioned and had been relying on the boon Agron and the others had gone to collect - a boon that none of them would see. He would leave it to Spartacus to explain to them all what had happened. Agron would not stay to see their disappointment.

The gladiator reached the makeshift room he and Nasir had created for themselves. Curtains had been hung to give them some privacy, some illusion that they could ever be alone, and Agron was glad for them then. They would keep away prying eye and wagging tongue. Falling heavily into a stool, Agron hunched forward, his elbows on his knees and his head cradled in his hands.

There was one person those curtains wouldn't keep out. Agron needn't look up and meet Nasir's dark eyes; he'd heard the man's approach, had recognized the light footfalls - and who else would brave Agron's rage? Fingers slid into the gladiator's hair and a warm body stepped near, and for a split second Agron wanted to surrender to it - but his anger overcame that and he pushed Nasir away with a sigh and without lifting gaze to the Syrian's face.

But Nasir was stubborn. He reached out and, with a surprisingly strong grip, lifted Agron's face by the chin. Agron's blue eyes avoided him. "I will tend to wound," the Syrian said, and then turned to gather what he would need. Agron remained silent.

The Syrian lifted a jug of water and slowly poured some into a basin, then dipped a cut of cloth in the cool liquid, saturating it. As he worked, he spoke. "The exchange did not go as planned," he said, stating the painfully obvious fact. Finally, there was a vocal response from the gladiator, but it was only a scoff. No words passed his lips.

His actions spoke loudly and clearly, though, when Nasir moved to press dampened cloth against Agron's upper lip, from where blood had been slowly flowing; the gladiator smacked away that hand and glared miserably at it. He didn't need to be cleaned by gentle touch like a helpless babe. He didn't fucking need anything except for a wagon full of weapons - something Glaber had never meant to give them.

But to the gladiator's surprise, Nasir reached out again, this time with his other hand and to grab tightly onto Agron's chin, fingertips digging in to hold his face firmly in place. And then he lifted the cloth to start cleaning the blood that stained Agron's skin. There would be no more struggle from the German; he was a little too startled by the force Nasir implemented to properly protest. It was a strange contrast, how gentle the Syrian was in tending to Agron's wound and how rough he was in making sure the gladiator did not refuse the help.

"How did you come by these?" Nasir asked, referring to the injuries his face had suffered. Soon all the blood was washed away and only then did the hand on Agron's chin soften, moving to lightly stroke his jaw. The cloth went to another purpose, finding swelled bruises and soothing them with the cool water.

Agron clenched his jaw. It did nothing to lessen his pounding headache. "Glaber laid a trap," he said stiffly. "There were never any weapons in the cart. Only Ashur and his group of fucking monsters." Because that was what those things had been. Certainly not men. They had been things brought up from the underworld to undo them.

"Ashur," Nasir repeated. Agron looked up and saw that the other man's brows had drawn together. "The Syrian?"

The gladiator nodded once. "He apparently makes fucking home within Glaber's ass," he said, and whatever small part of him wasn't entirely overcome by rage was glad to see the troubled expression disappear from Nasir's dark features and be replaced with a small smile. But it was a fleeting happiness.

"Something else distracts thought to frustration," Nasir said knowingly. And how did he always know? With one look he could understand Agron's mind better than the gladiator could himself. With one touch the Syrian could know what ailed Agron, and with one more could chase the pain from body. It was something Agron should have been thankful for, but he felt no gratitude in that moment. He was too troubled by his own failure.

"I could not best them," he revealed, shaking his head. "Not a single blow landed. They remained untouched and I…" With a short, humorless laugh, he gestured to his own face. "I suffer this."

It was a humiliating things to admit aloud. He could have said it to no one but Nasir. He'd never felt like this before; so very beaten, so utterly defeated. He had been beaten in a fight before, yes, but never so thoroughly. At least in those other instances he'd done some damage himself, but this time? This time he'd done nothing. Had it not been for the others, for Spartacus and for Lucius and Mira, who stood by with bows, he surely would have been dead. Grateful though he was that they had saved his life, he wished they hadn't been forced to.

Nasir took Agron's face in his hands. "That you returned at all is a victory," he said kindly. "This is not the arena. It was never only you against them."

"But if I had—" Agron started, but gentle fingertips on his lips stayed the flow of words.

Fingertips traced along the curve of Agron's lips. "There are more battles to be fought," the Syrian said. "Put this one behind you and look forward to the next." It was sound advice. That, Agron knew. But he would linger longer than that on what had happened. He very well could linger until the next time he faced those men and came out victorious.

Though he was gone from the arena, some of the gladiator remained.

Still, he nodded his understanding, and in that small gesture felt some of his frustration disappear. Nasir smiled and leaned down to bump his forehead against Agron's, but when he stood again there was a thoughtful look on his face. "Hmmm," he intoned, tilting his head to the side and letting his wandering fingertips flutter down over Agron's neck, his fingers tangled in the leather cord wrapped around it.

"What is it?" Agron asked.

Playfully, Nasir tugged at the cord, and a mischievous glint came into his eyes. "Perhaps you should more often face me in a fight," he said in a teasing tone, "so that you may more intimately know the taste of defeat. Then it may lose its bitterness over time."

For a split second, Agron's abated anger flared up again - but then his face spit into a grin. A laugh bubbled to his lips and escaped him, and with that, his entire countenance changed. If the gladiator only knew how expertly Nasir played him. The Syrian needed only to pluck a single string to make Agron sing. And sing he did.

Nasir spoke over the laughter. "You laugh only to hide trembling fear," he said, pulling harder on the leather cord and stepping forward to straddle Agron where he sat. The gladiator's arms wrapped automatically around the other man, roughly pulling that body against his own.

"I laugh," Agron teased in return, "because a little pup just bared his teeth at a wolf."

It was in that moment that Agron realized the dangerous ground on which he tread. There was an impish smile on Nasir's face and his dark eyes narrowed - and then, suddenly, the gladiator was pushed backwards off the stool. He landed hard on his back and Nasir's weight came down on top of him, robbing him of breath. The Syrian grabbed for Agron's wrists, no doubt meaning to pin them to the floor and claim victory, but the gladiator wouldn't be so easily defeated.

And suddenly they turned into children, laughing and yelling in voices swelled with mirth. Agron's troubles were forgotten, if only for a little while, and that was a kindness. One Nasir had knowingly provided.

Agron tugged his wrists from Nasir's grip and pulled the man into a tight embrace, pinning his arms against his body. The Syrian struggled and finally broke Agron's hold but then, with a growl, the gladiator rolled the both of them over, capturing both of Nasir's hands and holding them against the stone floor beneath them. The little pup's legs kicked and kicked as he tried once more to escape Agron's hold, but it was no use. Soon, Nasir gave up and lay against the floor in defeat, breathing hard. Agron looked down at him, his grin bright and gloating. The poor gladiator should have seen the devilish curling of the corners of Nasir's mouth, but he was too distracted by the legs that slowly wrapped around him.

"Come, champion," the Syrian purred. "Claim your reward."

And so Agron leaned down to steal a kiss from Nasir's lips. At first, the other man responded in kind, drawing Agron deeper and deeper into it - and then the Syrian sank his teeth into Agron's bottom lip enough to draw blood and a short cry of pain from him. And then they were tumbling around on the floor once again in a power struggle and despite the injury Agron had suffered, his still laughed. In fact, he laughed even harder as his lip throbbed, fucking charmed by how devious Nasir was. Charmed, yes, but he would show the man no mercy.

Their horseplay took them to the edges of their makeshift room and, as Agron fought to once more come out on top of Nasir, one of the curtains caught under the Syrian's body so that when Agron finally rolled to the side, he brought the curtain down on top of them. It was a chain reaction; one of the hanging cloths came down and the rest followed, draping over their struggling bodies and all of their belongings. Finally, when the last curtain fluttered to the floor, Agron and Nasir both stilled. A beat of absolute silence and then they roared with yet more laughter. Agron, weakened by his amusement, surrendered and fell to the floor beside Nasir, struggling to catch his breath.

It was a moment before the two of them calmed down. Slowly, Nasir climbed on top of Agron, but the fight was gone from them both. The Syrian leaned down and pressed an apologetic kiss against Agron's wounded bottom lip before drawing it into his mouth and gently, gently sucking on it. A thrill shot through Agron's body and he closed his eyes, then lifted himself up onto his elbows to kiss the other man. It was a peaceful end to a great struggle.

Nasir pulled away from the kiss with a breathless gasp, lifting his hands and gently taking Agron's face in them. "How do you find the taste of defeat?" he whispered against the gladiator's mouth, which gradually curled in a grin.

"Sweet," Agron answered, and then tasted it again, content to forget his troubles for just a little while longer.