Work Text:
Hawkins, Indiana. 1986
A sharp pain swiped across your forehead as you rubbed your temples. The bridge of your nose left heavy from the frames resting upon them. Glaring at the exhibit in front of you, what stared back was an article of clothing, or what was left of it, from the Roman Empire. The garment was plain and ravished of its original pigment, yet it stood powerfully inside the glass casing. In fabulous shape for its age, the item was described to be feminine. It was completely unfamiliar and a stark difference from the fashion you were clad in currently. Nevertheless, you felt a wave of nostalgia for something that was never yours.
Your hand skimmed over the stitching of your jacket, leaving your fingertips curious if the soft material would survive such turmoil. It was then that you imagined yourself in the garment, standing on uneven ground in a bustling empire. You imagined the fluorescent lighting beaming down on you as the harsh Roman sun, penetrating your skin sweetly during the summer months. Eyes finding your own reflection in the glass pane, the silhouette of the mannequin merged with the outline of your own shape. Completely submersed, you neglected to see the figure approaching from behind. A swift hand found its way to your waist, a chin tucking along the cave of your shoulder.
"Might I say, you'd look fantastic in that? Whatever it is."
You spun on your heels to face the culprit. Smirking infamously, your boyfriend peered right back at you.
You scoffed. "You don't even know what it is."
"Does anyone?"
Brows raising playfully, you responded. "Arguably, yes." Your final paper was supposed to consist of research on a particular piece of ancient art and its function during the time period. Eddie didn't care for school like you did, and though the assignment was dreadful, it filled some of that insatiable hunger for knowledge everlastingly persisting in your brain. So, as long as Eddie was able to stick by your side, he was happy to comply with educational activities.
"Is this what you were looking for?" He asks. His face contorts into slight shock, as if he were disappointed in the garment's lack of personality. Your head bobs up and down in response. The two of you stand side by side, viewing the exhibit before you. Eddie's leather jacket and combat boots were yet another stark comparison, and it leaves you wondering what he might've looked like centuries ago.
Bemusement settles into the gap between his brows, eyes skimming the description behind the glass; a small panel inscribed with such little detail, for it's all that is known of this article. Eddie allows his weight to shift onto his opposite foot, expressing what you interpreted as impatience. His leather garments squeak with every uncomfortable shift, prompting a frown to settle along your lips. "I'm sorry this is so boring to you." You stated, avoiding eye contact even through the glass.
The brunet shifted towards you quickly, and in the corner of your eye, you could see his immediate apologetic pout. "No, no, I'm not bored at all. It's just that there's something I want you to see."
Eddie has you clinging onto his bicep as he weaves through the museum halls, as if something is drawing him to a particular exhibit. Concentration swallows his brown irises. Each stride has you quickening your own steps, leaving your heeled shoes clacking in competition with muted conversations. Your boyfriend loses the determination in his broad shoulders, noticeably loosening as his gaze settles on a near statue. Breathlessly, Eddie laughs. A tint of pink rushes over his pale complexion. "Now, I want you to know I don't see it at all."
"What are you talking about, Eddie?"
As you approach the marbled statue, a chill settles deep inside of your spine. It's uncanny. The hair sticks up on the back of your neck, almost as if it's prying itself off. You know he's scanning your reaction, yet your mouth cannot change from its position fixed agape.
"One of the workers approached me, told me I resemble—"
"Eddie," you choke out. "It's uncanny." You can't put a finger on why it's making you speechless, yet the sculpture is terrifyingly familiar. The feeling is intimate, like being reminded of a memory from when you were a child—you never remember the picture clearly until someone paints it for you. Emperor Publius Septimius Geta, it inscribed. Yet, it should've had your boyfriend's name instead. As the peculiarity of it somewhat haunted you, everything that happened in Hawkins was way more concerning. You never believed in the mythical, but as the marble statue stared back at you, you pondered the existence of reincarnation.
"Sweetheart, you're fucking with me, right?" But any protest was left hanging lifeless on the tip of your tongue. Mouth dryly agape in disbelief, you examined the sculpture of the late Roman emperor. How had you not seen this before?
Each detail, from the bridge of his nose to the curvature of his brow, mirrored those of Eddie's. His tousled curls were much shorter than your boyfriend's, yet your own fingers tingled with nostalgia. You could feel the curled strands slipping off the pads of your fingertips and bouncing back against the head of hair. Eddie rambled on about his spoken ancestry, denying any possibility of relation.
"This isn't the craziest part, though." Eddie reveals, excitedly. Grabbing your limp hand, he drags you to the following display. Something resembling a cruel joke, the painting before you delicately expressed Geta and Wife, in which the woman beside the Emperor was adorned with a complexion identical to yours. Age had swept greedily over patches of the canvas, but her features were undeniably yours. Staring back at you with identical irises and jewels resting on her bare neck, the woman somewhat mocked you.
Eddie rubs the back of his neck as he takes in your shellshocked state. An uncomfortable chuckle leaves his lips. "Kinda creepy, right?" You can't respond. Your heartbeat rattles against your temples. "I guess we found our celebrity doppelgängers." Eddie laughs once again, and had you not been so focused, you would've felt the warmth trickle from your nostril, splashing onto your black shoes like a drop of rain. "Honey, you're bleeding." The brunet brings your chin into his hand and hisses at your noticeable decrease in temperature. The color drains from your face, dragging your vision along with it. It spills onto the ground, beside the splatter of your blood.
"I don't feel well." The words leave your lips successfully, but you are unable to hear them for yourself. The symphony of ringing against your eardrums mutes any plea for assistance. Eddie's frantic expression is the last thing you see before your body hits the hard surface of the linoleum.
Rome, Italy. 209 A.D.
An inconsistent breeze brushes against your skin. Eyes closed, you imagine the ceiling fan clattering above your head. Envisioning Eddie's bedroom fan as it rotates, brushing cool air that trickles down to your position on his bed. The surface beneath your back is somewhat harsher than you remember it to be, however. You don't inhale subtle breaths of your boyfriend's cologne; instead, the ground beneath you begins to dig into your delicate skin. The warm air engulfing you prompted confusion. How long had you been out? Expecting such memorable scenery, you slowly adjust to prying yourself from slumber. Expecting the inevitable darkness that was Eddie's shaded room, you instead peel your eyes open to see a handful of leaves being thrust into your face. Each stroke pushing fresh air into you, as coos are heard around your fragile silhouette. Several pairs of eyes grow in size as they watch you gain consciousness. Frozen on the apparent concrete, the whites of your own eyes swelled. The person fanning you paused quickly, and a feminine gasp left their lips.
"Augusta! You are okay. I must gather your husband." The woman all but jumps from her crouched position and runs out of the small box-like room. Her native tongue is far different than yours, yet your fluency in understanding is just as bizarre. Surveying the crowd of oddly dressed people and their pitiful glances, you soon realize the humor at hand. You must be dreaming of Ancient Rome. Your heartbeat thumps against your temples, rattling loud enough to deafen any surrounding clatter. Gentle hands find the crevice of your elbow and lift you from your fallen state. Only then do you get a glimpse of the exact state you're truly in. Oh, my God, you beg breathlessly. Knees buckling like they had in the museum, you're caught by the same strong arms. Moving for you, the individual places you into a sturdy chair, where you can successfully overlook the Colosseum's promising views in their glory.
A man, paler than a vampire, tilts his head sideways, peering at your delicate state with faux sympathy. Thin lines become of his blue eyes, and a condescending smirk spreads across his sick face. "Brother, it appears your wife has seemingly lost it. Perhaps in such a fugue state, she will choose a new husband." He snickers. Brother? The acknowledgment of your situation only worsens the nausea menacing in the back of your throat. Had this truly been a dream, why did it make an example of all of your senses? If you had truly concussed yourself at the museum, why were you living and breathing in a flourishing ancient empire? The golden wreath situated on the infected one's head beamed pridefully in the Roman sun. His confidence was as repulsive as his appearance.
"Shut up, Caracalla!"
"She cannot handle it; you shouldn't have brought her here again." Caracalla spits. Turning to face your defender, your gut churns as if one had tampered with the very water several women were pouring down your dry throat—maids of some sort, you assumed. Servants that worked for the familiar man sitting directly next to you. His large brown eyes plead as he examines your body language. Those same freezing goosebumps mumbled threats against your clothed spine. You couldn't help but gasp as you caught his gaze.
"Eddie?" You know it isn't him, yet you couldn't hold the name back from leaving your agape lips. Suddenly, your lips felt overwhelmingly dry against your complexion, as if the very name spilled venom over your already split pout.
The man raises a hand, caressing your temple. A streak of blood paints his fingertips. Yet, he doesn't react to it like he does the fallen gladiators. This drop seems to offend him. You watch as his thick brows furrow in frustration, and he barks at a nearby servant. "I should never have brought you here. Either the persistent heat is flustering you, or the series of deaths in the arena." The same brows lift in anticipation. He is demanding. You've learned that rather quickly.
"Perhaps both." The Emperor's shoulders loosen slightly at your small smile. Studying your husband, you are seeing him for what he has never been before. In the flesh, Geta is cruelly pale. It is apparent he is decorated for the occasion, as his eyelids are messily black as if a toddler broke into their mother's makeup. Tousles of yellow curls flush against his head—a color you'd never expect your beloved to cherish. Familiar with seeing Eddie clad in an ocean of black, Emperor Geta is confidently donned in an array of vibrance and a parade of wealth. You supposed you were as well, as the tired eyes of the patrons sitting beneath you reminded you of your apparent status. Your status?
Conflicted in what was real and what was fantasy, you found yourself absorbing the sweet Roman air. It was better than you had envisioned in the museum. The clang of clashing swords mirrored the golden bangles decorating your wrists, clattering in their own fashion as you nonchalantly caressed your cheek. Your gaze avoided the violence raging before you. It was one thing to read about it and another to see it for yourself. Your gaze was not the only one paying no mind to the excitement. Reluctantly, turning to face the man beside you reminded you of your own boyfriend centuries into the future. Geta’s face was scrunched in skepticism, as if your thoughts were being whispered to him while you conjured them. The fine lines in his forehead mirrored those of Eddie's. The way he studied every inch of your being for maltreatment, injury, and inflicted imperfections was inherently familiar, just as it was romantic. It was extraordinary how different, yet similar, both men were.
Geta stretched out a gentle hand, where you met him with your own. The calluses imbedded into the plush of his parched flesh could not be the result of vigorous guitar playing but the executions of an emperor.
His attention to you was cut short by the demands of a cacophonous arena, ravenous for a gladiatorial victor. Concert venues you’d attended had nothing on the boisterous Colosseum crowd. The starving eyes of vengeful spectators met your seemingly naive ones. Children just the same age as Will Byers when he was taken scream piercingly for the Emperors to choose the inevitable fate of the loser. Spits of sours amongst miscellaneous objects hurled into the dirt-like stage. And as Geta arrogantly signifies approval for the unfortunate’s execution, your quick feet exit the secluded box—leaving you exempt from watching the gladiator’s life seep back into the earth.
Back in the palace, you'd somewhat begun to adjust to life in a different time period. It helped that with each step you took, someone was almost walking for you. Every corner you rounded, an anticipated item of decor greeted you pleasantly. This was your home after all, and it began to not feel so paranormal. Admitting to yourself that you were the historical wife of an emperor was a different feat altogether.
Finding yourself in the very bedroom you and the Emperor shared, you sat quietly in your desk chair. The mirror before you presented the makeup delicately added to your complexion. Paler than usual, you did not resemble the illness your brother-in-law wore pompously. Hair swept up into a neat updo, the skin of your neck was exposed. Goosebumps gathered along your shoulders as the bedroom door whisked open. Standing rather awkwardly, Geta once again resembled the man you loved in Hawkins. His shy demeanor struck you as peculiar. As he approached your sitting silhouette, a gentle kiss was felt on the side of your neck. "Something is different about you."
Heat settles into the pit of your stomach, finding yourself somewhat starved as his lips left behind a burn on your skin. Wanting more, you reply. "Admittedly, I am a bit scattered today."
Geta crouches down to your level, grabbing your hands in the process. How does this work exactly? Is it a vivid dream you'll be reluctant to wake from, or an alternate reality? His pleading eyes prompt guilt into your gut. "Darling, allow me to jog your memory." He says, though it resembles more of a beg. Effortlessly, your husband leads you across the grand palace. With each step echoing on the polished floor, Geta waves off the entourage of guards following suit. It is just the two of you standing under the beaming sun now, surrounded by a garden larger than the town of Hawkins itself. Still adorned in his attire from the Colosseum, Geta glows under the warm lighting. His yellow hair absorbs the glare, illuminating proudly in response. It is there that Geta embodies a God. Every inch of his entirety soaks in the golden brilliance. From the prominent bridge of his nose to the rise and fall of his armored chest, you admire him shamelessly.
"It is as if you do not recognize me." He admits. "As if this is your first time seeing me."
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
Geta shakes his head profusely, a frown etching on his pale face. He steps before you then, blocking the beaming sun from heating you any further. You are reminded that in this life, he controls your well-being. Yet, as his hand cups your cooling face, the Emperor is not your ruler, or your God, but your equal. "Your silence wounds me. Please, confide in me."
It is your turn to bob your head sideways in objection. A pitiful laugh escapes your stained lips. "You will think I am mentally disturbed."
The blond tilts your chin for easier access, dipping his head to caress his lips to yours. Embracing his kiss pleasantly, you bring a hand to the back of his neck—almost in desperation for the moment to never fully conclude. Against your mouth, Geta whispers. "I wish nothing but to bring life back to yours."
The man held you whilst waiting for your confession, yet you couldn't shake the concern that if you confessed, you'd be sent forward in time. Had you revealed the truth of your origin, would you wake up from this fantasy you had grown to adore? Eddie was presumably waiting for you in the 80s, where your life expectancy was much longer. Geta would die in a few years at the hands of his own brother, meaning your life would likely be cut short as well.
"I am not from this time. I'm from 1986." The statement felt as ridiculous to hear aloud as it did in the comfort of your head. Geta's gaze never left yours, but as if he could get any paler, any semblance of color drained right from his face. You imagined it seeping into the ground, just as the gladiator's had. Panic began to brew.
"I'm not understanding. You're from years into the future?"
"Yes, at least this version of me."
His lingering hand leaves your cheek, once again staining it with heat as it departs. Your husband runs the newly free hand over his hair, tousling the curls into a mess. "But you're here? You are my wife. We are married."
"I'm not exactly sure. It feels as if I'm dreaming. I suppose both things are true at once."
Geta nods in what appears to be acceptance. Whether or not he understands is unclear, but as he grabs a rose from the bush behind him, he appears to be in solitude. Fumbling with the green stem, you watch as uncertainty settles in his brown eyes. There are a million things he could ask you, compromising things that could change the outcome of the future and many series of events. The curiosities congregate at the front of his brain, pulling the infamous furrow between his brows. Yet, he won't ask. Instead, he brings his grip onto your clothed waist, pulling you into his firm body. The sun beats down on the two of you, though its embrace is nothing compared to the Emperor's. Geta tucks strands of hair behind your ear and offers you the white flower. "If this much is true," he begins. "I shall love you in every lifetime."
Geta presses his lips onto yours once more, and by the time you open your eyes again, you are back to where you started.
Seemingly in the museum once more, Eddie holds your head in his hands, as if it would roll off if he lessened his grip. He searches your face vigorously, brows pinched in desperation. He brings your limp hand to his lips and presses them to your skin. His long hair tickles you gently, yet you hiss as you feel a sting along your fingertip. Glancing down, you find a minuscule hole poked into the plush of your hand. Blood pours from the wound leisurely, as if plucked from the grasp of a rose's thorn.