Chapter Text
Reddite ergo quae sunt Caesaris Caesari et quae sunt Dei Deo.
Reddite ergo quae sunt Caesaris Caesari et quae sunt Dei Deo.
Reddite ergo quae sunt Caesaris Caesari et quae sunt Dei Deo.
Reddite ergo quae sunt Caesaris Caesari et quae sunt Dei Deo.
The desk in the Mother Superior’s room in Holy Trinity Elementary School had had a lot of Roman busts on it. History textbooks were allowed, as long as they were on the approved list. Vincent Whittman, aged eight, had stared at the bust of Julius Caesar whenever the nuns were swatting his knuckles with a ruler, keeping his jaw clenched between every swish, whack!
At the base of the bust were the Latin words he was so bad at pronouncing at first. With every mistake, they hit him again. Eventually, his Latin improved. So the pain was worth something.
Render unto Caesar, that which is Caesar’s. Give unto God, that which is God’s.
Davenport isn’t God. For now, he’s Caesar. Vincent can give the man what he wants, just as Caesar had to Nicomedes. That thought steels him, when he has the occasion to compare the wood of Davenport’s desk to that of the Mother Superior. The wood grain here is shit. Vincent closes his eyes, feeling the cheap particle board press against his cheek when Davenport yanks his pants down.
“C’mon, kid. Put a little effort into it. If I wanted a dead fish, I could go home to my wife.”
Davenport chuckles. Vincent makes an effort to do the same, because otherwise, Davenport is laughing at him, not with him. Otherwise, this isn’t an off-color under-the-table deal, and he’s a victim.
Vincent wonders if Nicomedes made Caesar laugh at his stupid little jokes.
He lets Davenport grope at him, doesn’t flinch when Davenport tugs his briefs down. Back in school, he’d spied on the other boys changing, just like he’d spied on the girls’ side, and rubbed himself off to both. Now, he doesn’t want to see this man’s half-hard prick, but that doesn’t matter. He does want what Davenport has, which is the weekend weather slot, now that Billings is retiring.
Davenport slaps his ass, and Vincent jolts, turning to shoot a startled, wide-eyed look at his boss over his shoulder. Davenport just smirks. “There, now there’s some life in you. Here, this’ll help.”
Vincent snorts his first line of cocaine, facedown over Davenport’s desk. It helps him fake his way through the next ten minutes of the man’s sweaty belly pressing against his back, the thick intrusive shoving at his insides, the hands gripping his hips hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises. Once he was Emperor, no one cared anymore, he tells himself, and tries to be a good ride. They called Caesar the “Queen of Bithynia,” but only until he was Emperor.
The pain doesn’t matter. The humiliation doesn’t matter. All that matters is that no one is getting between him and what he wants. Not the producer who’d turned down his application, not the executive who’d denied him even an audition, not the man fucking his ass. No one.
Davenport reaches around to paw at his half-hard cock, and Vincent shoves his hand away. “I’m not a fairy.”
“Good man.” Davenport slaps his ass again when he’s done, like Vincent didn’t protest or whine enough the first time. “Consider this weekend an audition.”
That’s all he needs, is a chance. Once he gets the slightest taste, he sinks his jaws in, and doesn’t let go. Success is so close. All he has to do is reach out his hand, and not care what he has to do along the way.