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Think of what they’d do to Dundas. Macrinus’ words echo in Caracalla’s head as he stalks his way down the hall to his brother’s rooms. He’d left his precious little monkey in the hands of his slave back down the hall, shoving the delicate chain link leash into his hands and screeching at the boy to look after him.
His jewelry jangled together with every step, and the leather handle of his Pugio creaking in hand and blade knocking against the sheath in his grip as Caracalla held it in front of him. It made a great deal of sense, killing his brother. It would show everyone that he could do what it took to be Emperor. Show his tenacity, his skill, his will. Yes, yes. He tapped the scabbard against his hand, grinning to himself.
Their rooms within the palace weren’t that far from each other, down a long hall, and before long Caracalla is shoving his way through the doors. He unsheathes his dagger as he crosses the room, tossing the sheath aside before he charges at his brother. The huff of breath Geta lets out as he’s shoved back against a pillar, and the sound of his golden laurels hitting the floor are satisfying. Caracalla grips his younger brother’s tunic tighter, keeping him against the pillar as Geta tries to regain his breath. Their faces are so close that he can feel Geta’s weak breaths against his makeuped cheeks.
“You’ve got to go, Geta,” Caracalla giggles, crazed. “Nothing is mine, it’s always ours, you’re always taking from me! I’m the eldest, I should be ruling, not this co-emperor nonsense our father imposed.”
Geta’s face falls from confused to scared all at once, and he scratches at his brothers’ arms trying to fend him off. “No, no, Calla, I always share with you, we’re equals-”
Despite Geta’s height and reach, Caracalla keeps him back. “I don’t want to share, don’t you get it? You’re taking, always taking. It could have all been mine. It should all be mine.” The dagger in his fist wobbles closer to his brother’s face where he’s still also gripping Geta’s tunic. Geta’s eyes flick to the blade, wide and worried. It falls closer and presses a red line to his cheekbone near his eye with the twist of Caracalla’s fist. The red makeup smudges with the shock of blood.
The sight of it makes Caracalla shiver and giggle again, quieter. Geta is quiet for a moment before gently clasping his brother’s wrists, whispering, “You can have it all, brother.” His voice is wavering when he says “Please don’t kill me. Caracalla, please.”
Caracalla’s eyes don’t leave the trail of blood that is now reaching his brother’s chin. “Would you be my slave if I let you go? Would you sit at my feet when I sit at my throne, the sole throne? Sit there and hold Dundas and let me pet you?”
He cocks his head and looks up into his brother’s eyes. “Please?” He mimics his quiet begging. Geta is silent under Caracalla’s hands. “No. I know you Geta, brother. You’d be plotting, always plotting, which is why I have to kill you. You can’t blame anything on me if you’re dead.”
Caracalla tries to ease his dagger-hand out of Geta’s grip, only for his brother to grab at his arms again and wrestle him to the ground. This was never either of them’s forte, preferring to watch rather than participate in anything that didn’t involve a weapon. The scuffle ends abruptly, with the threatening press of Caracalla’s dagger against Geta’s throat, pinned right back against the pillar, now on his knees.
His breath is ragged, and Geta’s eyes are somehow even more desperate than before. “I’d do it, I’d do it, Calla. You’d be such a good Emperor, it’d be an honour to sit at your feet. You could keep me on my own little leash like Dundas. Please, you’d enjoy it so much. Brother-” It all rushes out of him in a single breath, only to be cut off by the press of his brothers’ lips against his own.
Geta can’t help how his mouth opens, how Caracalla invades it with his tongue, how good it still feels despite everything. He can’t help but grasp at the hem of his tunic, needing to reach out but not wanting to seem like a threat.
It’s thrilling, like every time before it, and makes Caracalla’s stomach flip in anticipation. He wants to be closer, needs to be closer. Needs to be in him. As he leans in even closer, the dagger buries itself deeper into Geta’s throat. Caracalla revels in the gasping gurgle of his brother, in the sweet metallic tang of his blood in their mouths.
“Oh, Calla-” Geta manages to get out before his brother slices through his windpipe, and he begins choking, breathing in his own blood.
Caracalla’s trembling as Geta’s body slumps to the floor, dagger still wedged across his drenched throat. Both of their tunics are already staining burgundy, and the sticky puddle of blood on the floor is still growing sluggishly as Geta’s body pumps out the rest of it’s lifeforce.
The fantasy of having his younger brother subservient to him, in front of the whole Empire, was just that- a fantasy. Not something that could ever happen. But this, this Caracalla could have.
Geta’s body is splayed on it’s side, and Caracalla gently pushes him over onto his back. It makes a small huff as the last of the air is pushed out of it’s lungs. He tosses his the sinus part of his robes aside and lays down next to his brother, rolling in his blood before turning face to face with Geta’s grey visage.
“I love you Geta. No-one but me’s going to remember you after this. Why should they. You’re all mine now. Your legacy is mine, and this is all you get.” He traces the edge of the blade not wedged in his brother’s throat before bringing the now cut finger up to the pale lips, brightening them with Caracalla’s own blood.
It’s the quietest his brother’s ever been. Not quoting poetry, not asking questions, not asking Caracalla to pass something, to share with him, to go sit there, do that over there. Nothing. Caracalla giggles in the blissful silence, loud, harsh.
He can’t help himself when he leans up on one elbow, nuzzling in under the blade, where all Geta smells like is blood. He licks right up against the blade, metal and metal. Copper blood covers his tongue and it tastes like ecstasy. His body is wracked with shivers, and he clambers overtop of his brother before leaning down again to wedge his tongue in the shallow initial cut in Geta’s cheek.
Blood and the chalk of makeup coats the inside of his mouth. Caracalla spits to the side and kisses his cold dead brother again. “I love you Geta.”
Surely it’d be a while before Macrinus came to check. Surely.