Work Text:
"Move, you fucking filth!"
Agron hesitated in step, the sun coming down heavily on his bared face and torso and searing them with blistering heat. He was getting so fucking sick of chains, of sun, of sand that clung to nose and eyes when pushed down and around. His mind was in a haze, dehydrated and barely on his feet. Duro was but a slight comforting presence behind him, guided through the street of whatever fucking place they were in now.
“Brother,” Agron called in their native tongue, uncaring to the strange stares from the other slaves at such harsh sounding words. “Fuck this place. Hard.”
Duro laughed out in his agreement, a wheezing sound that earned a shout and a quick lash from the slaver. Agron winced in his sympathies, tilting his head to catch his brother’s eye from over his shoulder and share a look of disdain. The fall of their home, the weeks of travel and abuse, all would have been nearly unbearable without the comfort of one another. Not always the verbal type, but the looks passed between them and the time spent in quiet solitude when afforded.
They were lined up again like cattle, hands chained in front of them, bodies blistered and red from the sun. Agron was beginning to feel a little light, rocking back onto his heels to attempt to steady himself. Duro didn’t seem to be fairing any better, shooting his brother a dark look from under his lashes. They were on display for the square, people stopping and staring at the wild beasts they had managed to enslave, foreign and unpredictable. Agron stared so long that his vision began to blur, sweat dripping from forehead in order to sting eyes.
There was a glimmer of gold that caught Agron’s attention, lowering his head in order to stare into the eyes of some garnished man. The white robes, golden jewelry, the clean cut hair and umbrella being held overhead all spoke of the fat nobles that took pleasure in seeing a man so bound. Agron’s eyes flittered for barely a second before they were traveling along the dark arm that was holding the umbrella.
The slave was dark, dark enough that his skin was unaffected by heat, long hair shining in the sun and it might have been one of the most beautiful people that Agron had ever seen. Slight of frame, beautiful of face without losing the masculinity of his features. A collar around his neck and proper clothing on his person said that he was at least a slave of status. The haze in Agron’s mind had him confused, unsure if it was real or not, but then the demure slave was meeting his eyes and Agron couldn’t breathe.
The smile might have been barely there, and Agron might have returned it. He wasn’t expecting the sharp whip to the back for swaying on his feet, arching and hissing in pain. His eyes clenched so tightly that his vision blurred, and when he opened them, the slave was gone. Disappeared, as if a dark vision.