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"Will you marry, brother?" Caracalla asks, the nonchalance in his tone drawing Geta's gaze to his side. Caracalla isn't looking at him. His attention is on his monkey, feeding him fresh fruit the servants brought the emperors earlier in the afternoon. The sun's warm upon their canopy, even in the shade. Sweat prickles his neck.
Marriage. Geta hasn't thought about it, in all honesty. All his focus is on keeping his thumb on Rome, its rabbit-quick pulse drumming with a fragility that Geta struggles to manage.
And Caracalla, of course. Always Caracalla, his twin in body, blood. Heart.
"Eventually," Geta says, disinterested, loose like a string on fabric.
He hopes Caracalla leaves the topic. Continuing on will only upset them both.
Instead, Caracalla seizes the string and pulls.
"If only I were born a woman," Caracalla laments, tickling Dondus beneath his tiny chin. "You could wed me."
Caracalla turns to Geta now, his blue eyes sharp, vibrant. Geta feels flayed beneath those eyes, his glass-sharp gaze. The blue starts to burn, the very sky itself caught on fire.
"I'd make a lovely bride," Caracalla continues, musical voice gentled, a contrast to the fervor in his eyes.
This is a test, Geta realizes. A game.
Caracalla's whimsical musings sometimes are just that, the silly thoughts born from a broken, beautiful brain, as colorful as the flowers he'll tuck behind his ear in the spring. But sometimes, there's something deeper at play, a game of the minds. Playful most of the time, an invitation to a dance, the steps only they know. But lately, they've taken a darker edge, something sour and not easily swallowed.
When they were younger, Geta knew how to play his brother's games perfectly. He was as versed in Caracalla as he was in his formal studies, if not more, and he prided himself on being the only one fluent in Caracalla's unique language. His shining star, his brother, his lover.
As disease eats away at Caracalla's brain like maggots burrowing into dead cattle, the rules of his games have been changing, shifting, like grains of sand between Geta's fingers. He tries to keep up, to hold on tight to the grains he can before he loses them altogether.
(He cannot lose Caracalla. He knows no other life than his brother. He will surely die.)
But Caracalla is still looking at him, waiting for an answer to a question he has not yet spoken.
Geta chances a thin smile that he doesn’t feel, the image of a doting compliment, "The loveliest."
Caracalla hums, considering the response the same way he'll swirl wine in his glass, a whirlpool of scarlet. Geta's thumbs twitch on the arms of his chair. He's already losing.
"I'd be the best wife," Caracalla continues. Dondus shuffles on his lap, trying to reach for the fruit still curled in Caracalla's hand, juice dribbling down his fingers. "You'd want for no other."
Danger, whispers a voice in Geta's mind. Danger.
"Where's this coming from, brother?" Geta asks, keeping his tone as lighthearted as possible, even though he knows his eyes must betray him. A kindling desperation, the embers stoked by each second that passes between them. What do you want from me? What can I give you? You know I'd do anything for you.
Caracalla stands now, his multitude of bracelets jingling as he moves, more graceful than any concubine employed in their service. His pale fingers grow lax, and the fruit drops to the ground, forgotten, as he crosses the short distance between them, his attention never wavering from Geta. Dondus chirps his annoyance, diving after the fallen food.
"Women bleed between their legs," Caracalla muses, as if he did not hear Geta at all. Maybe he didn't. “What that must feel like, I wonder.”
Geta feels frozen beneath Caracalla's stare, and when Caracalla swings one leg over his, Geta instinctively rests his hands on his brother's hips until he's properly seated on his lap. Geta gently squeezes those hips, pictures them rounder, fuller - built for childbirth. His cock stirs in interest.
"Would you bed me even then, brother? Until our coupling stains the linens red?" Caracalla demands in an urgent, hushed voice. He's leaning in close now, close enough that their noses can touch, his breath hot and sweet. "Would you put your mouth on me, let me bleed into you? Would you lick me clean?"
The first hints of mania creep into his voice, his stare; Geta knows the signs well enough by now, the incandescent glow that takes hold of his beloved sometimes. Geta squeezes Caracalla's hips a little tighter, trying to ground him, stabilize him. When they were younger, Geta could press Caracalla's face to his breast, and it would be enough to soothe the frayed edges of his mind. Now, it takes a little more to settle him.
(He fears for the day his brother cannot be calmed at all.)
"Yes," Geta says, bumping his nose against Caracalla's as their lips brush together, kissing the promise between them. The swell of arousal at such an image is overtaken by the larger need to assuage his brother's anxiety - over what, Geta remains unsure. "Until you scream for more."
Caracalla's wine-red lips twist in the beginnings of a smile, but a dark cloud passes over his face just a second later, sweeping him away from the here and now. His eyes go hazy, distant. Another flare of fear takes hold within Geta, watching as his brother drifts off to a place he cannot follow. When Caracalla lurches backward, he almost topples off Geta altogether, only Geta's hands keeping him in place.
"I wouldn't be able to give you an heir, though," he continues, more to himself than his brother, fearful babbling. His eyes shine, distant in growing hysteria. "My womb would be rotten, the children would be sickly, they'd come out all wrong."
Caracalla punctuates the last word with a distressed moan, a mother's wail for children that the gods have taken before they had a chance to breathe. Geta's shushing him in an instant, one hand cupping Caracalla’s rouged cheek, the other squarely on his hip. Behind them, Geta hears their guards shift on their feet, as if debating on an intervention. They won't, Geta knows. The last time a guard came between them, tried to calm Caracalla from one of his episodes, Geta had slashed his throat out with a snarl. The spray of blood, falling like rain, entranced Caracalla into a state of peace.
No one is allowed to touch Caracalla when he's upset except Geta. Caring for Caracalla is Geta’s job and Geta’s only; it's his birthright, same as the golden crowns adorned on their heads. Co-emperor, lover, brother. Caracalla is his.
None have tried since. None would dare.
“Shhh, brother, settle, settle,” he says, even as Caracalla's eyes well with tears. He wipes them away from his cheek, a tenderness he only knows with him. “There aren't any children. And if there were, they'd be fine. Perfect, even. Okay?”
Caracalla gives a wet sniff, his ragged breaths slowing, slowing. The detached gleam in his eyes fades, the fire of madness snuffed out, for now.
When he still doesn't speak, Geta presses again, “Yes?”
Caracalla’s still silent, trembling. Geta feels his adrenaline spike, and when he rubs his thumb against Caracalla's cheek, there's more force behind the action than he intends. Caracalla flinches, then leans close again, his face blotchy and miserable.
“Would you cast me away?” Caracalla whispers. “When I bore you nothing but death? Will you?”
There it is, Greta thinks, his expression twisting into an echo of Caracalla's despair. Would becomes will, the mask of fantasy unveiling reality.
Keep me, Caracalla’s eyes beg. Even if it kills us.
“Never. I would never do that to you, as man or woman,” Geta implores, voice rough. His hands tremble where they rest upon his brother, his body vibrating beneath his luxurious robes, the vulnerability of a man beneath gilded armor. “Remember? It's you and me. Always. Forever.”
Tension bleeds out of Caracalla’s body, like a branch bending from the weight of its fruit. Geta strokes his brother's sides the way he does his horse when he's spooked, and he's not sure which of them he's trying to calm.
“Forever,” Caracalla parrots, draping his arms around his brother’s neck, a pallid cage. “Forever.”
Geta leans up for a kiss, and Caracalla sighs prettily into it, mouth yielding to his brother's exploring tongue. They don't usually engage in such affection in broad daylight, not out of shame but out of political necessity, but allowances can be made for his darling brother, especially after an upset. Caracalla is greedy for it, begins to grind his hips in slow circles over Geta's covered cock, a simulation of how he takes his pleasure from his brother's body in their bed. Geta wants to give in, to take his brother here and now, but getting Caracalla further worked up could cause him to slip into the fog of his brain again, so he slows his brother's hips with a whispering promise of later between kisses.
When they pull away, Geta tickles his fingers against the meat of Caracalla's thighs, and the resulting eruption of giggles is worth it, Caracalla's smile wide, bright. Happy. Just like they used to be, before golden leaves ever graced their hair. Geta wants it to last.
“Stay with me tonight?” Geta asks.
They have separate bedchambers, mainly for the fact that they both take other lovers now and then (and Geta doesn't like to sleep in the same room as Dondus, but Caracalla need not know that), but they still share the same bed more often than not. They shared a womb for months, after all. Long-term separation feels illicit, unnatural.
Caracalla nods in agreement, pressing his cheek to Geta’s like a purring housecat. Geta soaks in his warmth, the weight of him, and exhales a long breath.
Just as they start to relax into each other, Caracalla squeaks out an ah! and disentangles himself from his brother’s lap in a hurry. Geta straightens, alarmed, but then sees his brother scoop up Dondus from where he’d been sulking on the ground like a spoiled child. A trait inherited from his owner, it seems.
“Sorry, my darling, are you still hungry? Sorry, sorry, let me feed you,” Caracalla coos, sitting down in his seat and grabbing more fruit for the little beast like the past few minutes didn’t happen. Annoyance at being rebuffed for a monkey prickles at Geta's pride, but he takes another long drink of wine to distract himself.
Caracalla is happy, and that's all that matters.
—-
Caracalla comes to him at night, just as he said.
He walks like a vision in the moonlight that spills across Geta's chambers, clad in a dress he's certain belongs to one of Geta's favored concubines. Arousal simmers as Geta opens his arms for his brother, who leans into him with a featherlight sigh, his skin soft from a bath. Geta buries his nose in Caracalla’s hair, perfumed with lavender and mild spices. He's exquisite.
“Geta. Brother,” Caracalla murmurs, leaning back so their eyes can meet. The blues of his eyes are glassy again, entranced. “Call me ‘wife’ tonight. Say you will. Please.”
The memory of the afternoon plays out in his head, Caracalla’s insecurity and lecherousness, and Geta can see it in his eyes all over again. For a brief, terrible moment, Geta fears that Caracalla has already forgotten their previous conversation, lost to the shadowy realm of disease. Maybe Caracalla can sense his worries, because he lifts onto his toes to lick an obscene line along Geta’s lips, sensual and wanting, to further tempt him into complying.
Perhaps this is another game, or a remnant of a conversation Caracalla can’t quite recall. Maybe this is a fantasy, newly awakened. Geta doesn't know. But he takes his brother's hand in his all the same, pressing his knuckles to his lips.
“Wife,” he murmurs, looking straight into Caracalla's eyes as if to press the point further.
Caracalla giggles, girlish and pleased, swaying into Geta as if drunk.
“Husband,” comes Caracalla’s answering croon, a single word that goes straight to Greta's cock, and he kisses Caracalla fiercely, who all but leaps into his arms in desire of being carried to bed like a bride.
Wife, Geta whispers as he disrobes them both, kisses all the pretty skin laid out before him like a feast.
Wife, he says as he slides into Caracalla's warm body, watching the way Caracalla's eyes flutter shut on a broken moan.
Wife, he whimpers when he reaches his climax, spilling deep inside his brother, claiming him inside and out.
Husband, Caracalla affirms, even as he trembles from the steady waves of pleasure.
His cheeks are wet. Geta isn't sure whose tears those are, but he kisses them away all the same.
Caracalla falls asleep on Geta's chest, clinging to him too tightly, just as he did in their boyhood. Geta stares at the dark ceiling, fingers idly stroking through Caracalla’s sex-mussed hair, and waits for dawn.
Sleep well.