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”I think I’ve decided what I want,” Caracalla declared. His voice carried through the tent, bringing its way to his brother on the opposite side. Geta half turned to him, casually surveying him for a moment before looking back to his scroll. He sat at the writing desk brought in for them. Geta was the only one to ever actually care to use it. Caracalla, instead, lay on a chaise, half wrapped in furs because of the cold. The fires within the large tent kept most of winter out of their space, but he couldn’t seem to get his fingers and toes to stay warm.
“And what is it you have decided upon?” Geta asked, though Caracalla could tell from his tone he was only partially interested. It was the first year of their reign, and their birthday was coming up, but they’d miss the ceremonies. The snow in this dreadful region kept them locked where they were, forced to mingle amongst the troops longer than planned. Caracalla didn’t mind so much their company, but he knew Geta did. What Caracalla minded was missing the celebrations they were suppose to host for the occasion. So, Geta had told him to come up with a gift, one he would readily supply for his brother to cheer him up. Caracalla had thought long and hard on what he would choose. He had finally come to his conclusion: something new and exciting in this dreadful cold that would surely warm him.
A moment passed between them, Caracalla letting his brother hang on the anticipation. Though Geta seemed more occupied with his parchments than his promise.
“A soldier,” Caracalla grinned. Geta’s face did a wonderful thing then. He scrunched together his eyebrows, pursed his lips slightly; confusion and disgust mixing together. He hadn’t even looked at Caracalla yet, tried to reign in his emotions before doing so.
“Whatever for?” Geta asked when he finally looked back at him. Caracalla could tell he tried to make his expression neutral, and failed. He looked gloriously disgusted.
“To bring to bed, of course.” His brother rolled his eyes at that. Caracalla watched delighted at his vexation.
“Yes, I get that. But—you have plenty to choose from—“ Geta paused, then sighed. He seemed to remember he had promised Caracalla anything. Plus, this was not a demand he could even refuse. It was why Caracalla allowed Geta his exasperation. It amused him more than anything, since it mattered little what his brother could do. Caracalla would have it, with or without Geta’s approval, but it was nice to not have to argue over it.
“Fine. At least choose to bed one not married, it’ll make our lives easier,” Geta sighed. He pressed his fingers to his temple a moment, and Caracalla reveled in making his day more difficult.
“Oh, but I don’t want to bed him,” Caracalla confessed. Geta’s head shot up quickly, looked at him hard.
“You just said—“
Caracalla jumped up from his spot then, causing Geta to stop speaking. He watched him weary-eyed as Caracalla brought a swath of furs with him, draped them across his shoulders. Geta looked at him fully, eyed him suspiciously as he came closer, the corners of his mouth turned down slightly. It made Caracalla feel giddy, his grin wider because of it.
He practically burned with unbearable excitement at the truth of his request. He leaned in close, cupping Geta’s ear as he whispered, “I wish for him to bed me.”
Geta instantly grabbed Caracalla’s wrist. The suddenness of it made him jump back, the force of his grip causing an old panic to rise within him. He flinched without meaning to, catching his brother’s gaze. Both looked at each other a moment, shared wide-eyed panic.
Caracalla had expected judgement, but he had not expected this: the look of horror on his brother’s face. He could feel how the cold had seeped into Geta’s fingers as readily as it did his; that Geta could not get his warm either.
“You said anything. You promised,” Caracalla reminded. He wished his voice didn’t betray the whine in it. Geta couldn’t deny him, but he also did not wish to upset his brother. He would have this either way. He had already decided it; Geta could not take this from him.
“Brother, anything else. Please, do not do this,” Geta begged. Caracalla tried to wrench his wrist out of Geta’s grasp, but his brother wouldn’t budge. He would leave bruises if he held on to Caracalla any tighter, but that wasn’t what had Caracalla in a panic.
“I’ve thought of it a long time.” His voice left him quickly. Suddenly, Caracalla could not stand his brother’s gaze. He tugged again at his wrist, but Geta still didn’t relent. Caracalla felt compelled to explain himself; he had not thought his brother would care so much.
“You see, at least a solider has some dignitas. But my favorites have none, I will not debase myself for one. But a soldier? Surely that would be enough.”
“Dignitas?” Geta questioned, rolled the word in his mouth. Then he scoffed.
“No soldier would have enough to spare you the humiliation. You’re worth too much,” Geta said. His gaze traveled across Caracalla’s whole, took in each bit of him. His eyes softened at every point they landed on. For this, Caracalla had no counter point, his brother had spoken too sincerely.
“If it’s dignitas you’re after…why not me?”
Geta spoke slowly, and Caracalla could tell he was forming the idea as he said it. He never let go of Caracalla, his grip stayed strong, his eyes gentle. The cold of his fingers burned.
“You?” Caracalla couldn’t fathom the idea, could not even begin to think it. Sure, the two had already shared similar experiences before, but this would be different. Caracalla would be lying if he said the thought didn’t thrill him as much as his first request had. But still, the thought was too foreign. They had never been alone; they’d always shared at least a third, if not more, together.
“There is none higher than an emperor. We are the same status. It would be as if nothing has changed,” Geta said carefully.
Caracalla was close to telling him no. He had already decided on a solider, had thought that a decent solution to this problem. Then Geta had finally let him go. He curled his hand into Caracalla’s, slotted their fingers together.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with the fact that I sat by and allowed someone make a mockery of you.” Caracalla squeezed his hand viciously. The very idea angered him.
“It wouldn’t—“
“It would! What else do you think would happen? But we are of the same blood, same womb; only I could keep your dignity intact.” When Caracalla didn’t answer, Geta continued.
“What if others found out? I only wish to spare you,” his brother whispered. He lowered his eyes submissively. He looked truly contrite, avoiding Caracalla’s gaze.
“You aren’t being fair!” Caracalla whined, because how was he suppose to say no to that? He cared little of others, but he loved his brother. It had always been Geta’s sincerity—his worry—that got to Caracalla. He always knew how to break down Caracalla’s stubborn will.
“Fine,” Caracalla relented haughtily. His brother exhaled, closed his eyes; relief flooded his features.
“But, you must promise me one thing.”
“Anything. For this, I would give you anything,” Geta whispered hastily. He lent down to press a kiss to Caracalla’s knuckles, kept his gaze from his. It struck Caracalla that he could have asked of anything in this moment, and truly he believed Geta would give it to him. His brother would defy the gods themselves in order to please him. But Caracalla only wanted one thing, and only Geta could deliver it.
“You will not despise me after. You will not view me differently. We are equals until the end.” Geta finally caught Caracalla’s eyes. In the low light of the tent they seemed darker, deeper somehow; they were not the eyes of his brother, but of someone else. There was a flare of desire in them he did not recognize, one he had not realized his brother could contain.
“Always,” Geta promised again with a kiss to his knuckles. And it was not the cold that made Caracalla shiver.
They had waited until night, when only the ones keeping watch were awake. It felt safer, more secluded, though they knew they were not alone. If they cared enough to call out, any number of people would come running to their aid. Perhaps it was why they hadn’t spoken a word yet to each other, letting the silence ring heavy between them. After their conversation, they had scarcely seen the other. Caracalla had kept out of the tent most of the day, and Geta had mostly stayed in it. That too had felt safer.
Geta had been the first to break the barrier between them as they stood before Caracalla’s cot. He had reached out, cupping Caracalla’s cheek to gently caress it. There was no need for him to voice anything, with the touch alone Caracalla understood what his brother was saying: he still had a chance to change his mind if he so wished. But Caracalla had already decided it, it felt foolish to backdown now.
He lent into his touch, grabbing his hand with his. In response to his unspoken words, he turned to lick Geta’s palm. His brother reacted instantly, making a sound of disgust and pulling away from him. Caracalla laughed at him.
“Don’t patronize me,” he said around a grin.
“I wasn’t,” Geta insisted, and Caracalla didn’t miss the way he wiped his hand on the side of his sleeping robe.
“Then, enough. Deliver on what you promised. Undress.” Caracalla wouldn’t let his brother delay any more. If they put it off any longer, he feared Geta would be the one to actually change his mind.
Since they had already paired down for bed, it took no time. Though Geta had done so shyly, this hands trembling slightly as he removed his clothes. He turned his body half away from Caracalla’s view, which struck him as odd, they had seen each other naked before. He thought this was not the part that should require such delicacy.
In a heavy silence, Caracalla settled at the end of the cot, Geta standing nervously naked before him.
“Oh,” Caracalla began in shock, and suddenly he realized why Geta had been so embarrassed to undress. He stared curiously as he took in his brother’s half-hard member. Caracalla, himself, wasn’t even hard yet.
He tried to take in Geta differently then, view him as a stranger would, but Caracalla realized he couldn’t. The various shades of color his body took; the length of his limbs and torso; the way his hair fell; his stature when standing at rest; the curves of hips and thighs. It was all Geta. It was all his brother. He was too familiar for Caracalla to distance himself from. Geta was no different than he had always been to him, which both comforted him and repulsed him. Caracalla thought maybe it was the thrill of those contradictory emotions that enticed him to keep going.
“I’ve a question I want to ask you,” Caracalla said. His gaze was almost clinical, as if he were surveying the curves of a sculpture than of flesh. Geta remained still, let Caracalla explore quietly, his eyes closed to avoid Caracalla’s.
“Do you remember that time we shared that slave girl? When we had her at the same time. I fucked her cunt, and you fucked her ass.” Geta hummed softly in recognition.
Caracalla remembered it well. It wasn’t the first time they shared, but it had been the only time they had done it like that. Caracalla had never been so close to his brother while having sex before. The closest they got was when he grasped Geta’s hand if an orgasm was too intense, something small to ground himself. But he had seen so much of Geta’s expression that night, Caracalla couldn’t help himself. He had reached beyond the girl and kissed Geta instead of her. Not as they sometimes did in greeting or farewell, but as lovers did, fully and with tongue.
It had been the first and only time they had done that too. They hadn’t even spoken of it afterwards, let it lie in the heat of the moment. But Caracalla remembered how his brother had rutted into her like a beast after. He wondered softly if he would do the same to him.
“When I kissed you, did you spill inside her?” At the thought, he was unable to help himself from reaching out. His brother jumped at his touch, Geta’s cock burned against his cold fingers. It made Caracalla grin.
Geta tilted Caracalla’s chin up to look at him properly then. He hadn’t even noticed when his brother had opened his eyes again.
“Why are you asking?” It wasn’t lost on Caracalla that Geta was avoiding the question, so he too avoided his.
“Do I entice you?” he asked curiously. With Geta’s hand still on his chin, he looked down.
Caracalla cradled his cock slightly, brushing his fingers around his warmth. Caracalla felt Geta stiffen at his touch, his gaze. He looked up at his brother again, whose face was as red as the very tip of him. Caracalla knew Geta would not answer. He didn’t need to. He could see the proof with his own eyes, feel its pulse beneath his fingertips.
Caracalla swirled his thumb softly over the tip of his cock, watched as Geta’s breath hitched. That, Caracalla thought, was interesting. He put more force behind the action, listened carefully when his brother hissed. Geta bit his lip to silence himself.
“Had you wished you were inside me instead?” Something shifted between them as soon as Caracalla spoke the words. His brother dropped his hand from his chin. He stepped away from Caracalla completely, moving from his reach.
“You’ve thought of this before,” Caracalla realized at Geta’s silence.
“Of us,” he clarified, though none was needed. Now with nothing to hold, Caracalla moved his hand to balance himself on the cot instead. His body unabashedly on display.
He was aware that his own cock had begun to take interest. Perhaps at the memory, or maybe Geta’s reaction to his touch, perhaps both. He resisted the immediate urge to stroke himself, to encourage it further. Instead, Caracalla kept his stare hard on his brother, even though now Geta refused to meet his gaze.
“Is that why you offered yourself, instead of a soldier?”
“You will have to be prepared,” Geta said to the far off wall of the tent. A statement; simple fact. He seemed almost distant now out of Caracalla’s reach. Caracalla couldn’t help but to chuckle. He allowed his brother to avoid his questioning, decided instead to move on. It didn’t matter anymore, here they already were.
“Have you done it for your boys before?” he asked. Geta shook his head in response.
“I haven’t had a boy in quite some time. I like them without the mess. They come to me ready,” he said.
“Oh, how boring. Grab the oil. Coat your fingers,” Caracalla ordered, jutting his chin towards the bottle.
“I’ll teach you how,” he taunted. His brother looked at him then.
“You do this?” Geta seemed almost shocked, a little horrified. Caracalla couldn’t help grinning at him, a sense of pride at what his brother did not like.
“I like them messy,” he said simply with a shrug of his shoulders.
And though he had teased his brother, Geta didn’t seem to need any instruction. He uncorked the bottle, coated his fingers generously. Fear had struck Caracalla at first when he had opened his legs for Geta. It was instinctual, like his brain knew this was not something he should have wanted. But his body very much did.
Before Geta could do anything, Caracalla had suddenly grabbed his slick hand. Geta made a small noise of surprise, not expecting the action, and Caracalla could feel the way his hand flinched wide in shock. He laughed at his brother, the way Geta’s hand had started to close around his to hold, because that hadn’t been Caracalla’s intention. He slid his hand along his brother’s, stealing some of the oil off of it for himself. Geta simply shook his head at him with a small smile when he realized what Caracalla was doing, reached for the oil again to re-coat his fingers.
With a slick hand, Caracalla laid fully back on the cot, generously stroked himself. When Geta grabbed the back of his knee to give himself more space, Caracalla closed his eyes. He opened his mouth to pant softly, feeling Geta put the first finger inside him. It felt foreign and dangerous; Caracalla had never been so hard from something so simple. His back arched with the movement as Geta slowly began to grow bolder. Like this, the cold seemed so far from them. The world belonged to only them.
“If not your boys, you do this with your girls,” Caracalla accused, opening his eyes to take in his brother. It didn’t matter if Geta tried to deny it; Caracalla could tell from his technique, the way he moved his fingers. It spoke to his experience. His brother had not mentioned that, conveniently chose to avoid such topics.
“So what if I do?” Geta pursed his lips in agitation. In an act of what felt like retaliation, he added another to make Caracalla gasp. It amused him to no end. Caracalla liked that he had confessed to doing this with his boys, but Geta still felt the need to defend himself. As if Caracalla would judge, as if he would care.
“You like to do it too! Cunt licker,” he teased breathlessly. Geta’s face lit up beautifully, turning bright red at the insult. Caracalla laughed, because what was one debauched action against another.
“You would say that to me now? When you’re like this?” Geta teased, a playful hiss. He pressed in hard to Caracalla, forcing a soft moan out of him. Caracalla didn’t resist the urge to hold the nap of Geta’s neck. It kept them locked in close.
“You said you would not view me differently,” Caracalla joked lightheartedly at first. Then suddenly he felt struck that Geta had meant his words, that it wasn’t mindless teasing.
“You promised it would not debase me!” He twisted his fingers in the ends of Geta’s hair. His smile gone to be replaced with distress.
“And I will not,” Geta answered quickly. Though both knew Caracalla did not believe him, so Geta softened his voice.
“Hush, of course, I didn’t mean it. I’m here, it’s all okay,” Geta leant down, kissed at Caracalla’s temple. He kept his lips there a moment longer than needed, rested gently against Caracalla. He hated the sound he let out when Geta retracted his fingers. He clutched tightly to his brother, wrapped his body around his. Caracalla let Geta simply hold him like when they were children; calming him as he has always done.
When the time came, Geta was slow with his entry, careful with his restraint. Caracalla’s face burned, his body flush in concentration. He determined his body to relax at his intrusion. He knew the moment his brother begun that Geta was right. He could not have done this with a mere soldier. At simply the push of his tip, Caracalla felt instantly a boy and Geta a man.
“I do not want this anymore,” Caracalla blurted, eyes wide at Geta. His brother froze above him, it felt almost worse. He could tell Geta was not fully inside him, was not pressed against him as if he were.
“You wish to stop?” Exasperation was not the right word. Nor weariness, worry, or concern. Caracalla could not place his brother’s tone, he was all too distracted by his body.
“No—“ Geta pushed in further; Caracalla heaved a moan.
“—yes—for a moment, maybe,” he rambled. Though a moment would not matter, Geta was fully in him now. A flare of embarrassment covered him; he could feel Geta’s pulse within him. And Caracalla could not remember a time before when sex had scared him as it did then. The stretch of him made him weak, made him hungry. It should not have made him demand more.
“You’ve taken me well,” Geta praised, brushing a sweaty strand from Caracalla’s face. Pride and shame mixed dangerously together within him, threatened to escape out his mouth.
“This part of you seems to want to keep going,” Geta observed, almost casually. Caracalla gasped as Geta grabbed his cock, now half-hard between them. He had flagged some from the exertion of entry, but it had not made him soft. A part of him liked the stretch, the bite of pain at taking in Geta.
“I fear I have decided my own present,” Geta said above him.
“I wish to leave my mark inside you.” Caracalla’s eyes flew open at his words. His brother looked all at once beautiful and terrifying above him. He hated the way the mere mention of it burned hotly beneath his skin. Caracalla wanted it, craved it in a way that frightened him.
“You can’t,” Caracalla breathed. He had not thought that far ahead, should have foreseen this outcome. While sometimes Caracalla enjoyed the thrill of marking his partners, his brother did not. Caracalla knew his brother to never pull out, always wanted his end in the welcomed warmth of another.
Though he could not hide the way he had tightened briefly at the thought. A panic rose in him as Geta moaned at the sensation: perhaps he had spilt some white inside Caracalla already. Would he know? Should he have somehow felt that? That invasion against his manhood. Caracalla feared his pleasure blinded him from it.
Geta moved so that he almost completely escaped out of him, then thrust deeply back in. Caracalla groaned loudly, clutching tightly to his brother’s back.
“See? Did you not feel how your body fought to keep me inside?” Caracalla’s cheeks burned, he pulled Geta in close to avoid his words. It was an awful mistake. He pressed his hot face into the crook of Geta’s neck, hid himself there. His brother slid his hand along the outside of his thigh, clutched at Caracalla’s hip to pull him even closer. With Geta so close, he could whisper his words into Caracalla’s ear.
“Your body has already accepted me so readily. You must welcome the thought.” Caracalla wanted to deny it, but the truth of his statement felt too great. It hit him suddenly and fiercely. Caracalla hated the whimper that escaped out of him, how he shook as his brother began to grind down into him.
“And with your soldier? How would that have ended?” Geta asked gently. Caracalla shook his head, pressed his forehead into Geta.
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” He hadn’t thought that far ahead. It was all different now then he pictured it, with Geta instead of a faceless man. It was better than he imagined. Somehow, it was worse. He felt flayed, exposed.
“I would have—“ Caracalla stopped, hiccuped a little noise instead. He would have, what? Even Caracalla didn’t know. He would have let him finish. He would have stopped him. Caracalla wasn’t even certain anymore he would have gotten this far if not for his brother.
Geta hadn’t stopped his ministrations, small movements that led to confident thrusts. It distracted his mind, made the world difficult. It made it easier, made it only their’s.
Caracalla clung to him, could not think to do anything else. His body moved with Geta’s, accepted each press of his hips to his.
“Shh, it’s only me. Remember, I would never hurt you,” Geta promised. Caracalla bit at his shoulder. His brother chuckled at him, so Caracalla bit down harder. Then his brother moaned.
“I think I like being inside you,” Geta confessed.
“More-so then others.” He pressed Caracalla back fully onto the cot, moved so he could kiss and bite at the underside of Caracalla’s jaw. Caracalla had to close his eyes at his words. His mouth hung open to breathe properly.
“I can feel the way you react while inside,” Geta whispered, like that was part of why he liked it. Caracalla knew he could, because he could when inside his boys. He knew of all the ways he was giving himself away. How he did even now, allowing Geta to feel how he enjoyed his confession. A whine left his lips as Geta pushed deeply into him.
As it had been before, it was his brother’s sly honesty that made Caracalla cave.
“Fine, I’ll allow it,” Caracalla decided. He knew this he could deny, and Geta would have accepted it. Though Geta was gifting him this experience, free of judgement, and in turn, he would gift him this: a thing that no other person could do to Caracalla, that would be his brother’s first.
“But, you must make me feel good first.” Caracalla lazily smiled. Geta had smiled back.
“I haven’t had a boy in quite some time,” Geta reminded him. He had only meant it in jest to caution his brother on expectation, but the wording had irked Caracalla.
“I am no boy,” Caracalla hissed. Geta promised.
“No,” Geta replied instantly, apologetically.
“You’re more, much more. You’re my flesh and blood; my brother,” Geta said, then kissed him deeply, marking him as lovers do.