Chapter Text
“My dear Stephanos, you will be my downfall. There is desire in your eyes; I can see, desire to ruin me… And what can I do? I must let you.”
That voice in Steve’s dream from last night is still haunting him when he arrives at Hawkins High that rainy morning of 1984. His car is left in the parking lot and he rushes inside the building. For the first time, he’s relieved that King Steve’s fall is imminent and no one stops him or greets him in his way through the school’s halls, because today he’s slightly freaking out and definitely not in the mood for socializing. He takes a seat at the back of the classroom, hiding himself as much as possible so no one could find out that an unknown man’s silhouette framed in sun and covered in gold pops in his head every time he closes his eyes.
Later at lunch, the only thing he wants is to eat his meal peacefully, but ‘The Freak‘ Munson seems to have very different plans. Eddie is being more annoying and even more of an attention seeker than ever today, he gets on the table and speaks loud enough to be heard by everyone at the cafeteria as if he was an Emperor talking to his citizens. He rambles about how stupid the popularity system is, how he and his friends are supposed to be like everyone else to fit in standards. Steve is used to this, usually he’d just ignore it and focus on his meal, but now he could only focus on how much that voice resembles the voice in his dream. And that freaks him out even more.
So he just stands up and walks straight to the Hellfire Club table. He locks eyes with Eddie and asks him to stop the nonsense rambling and be quiet for once.
“Oh, to talk about Fallen Kings. Hello, Harrington. Are you now low enough to face people like me?”
“Can’t you just shut the hell up, at least for the rest of lunchtime? I’m serious, Munson, no one wants to hear your bullshit today.”
Eddie chuckles mockingly, his curls moving along with his shoulders, and he crouches on the table to be at the same level of Steve’s face.
“I must let your majesty know, your fake gold crown is not shiny enough anymore to hold some power on me.” He says, smiling, but something is off. And it’s not like they shared words on a daily basis for Steve to know when Eddie’s different than usual, but it’s still noticeable how sharp his current voicetone is, other than his usual playfulness, just like something is bothering him, like he has a stick in his ass. Steve snorts to that thought, and Eddie just gets even more irritated and pushes the king’s shoulder, but his smile doesn't disappear while he spits: “Why don’t you fuck off? Go back to your castle in ruins, look for a princess who won’t run away with another man this time.”
Steve knows what he’s talking about. Everybody knows. They all have seen Nancy holding hands with Jonathan immediately after she dumped Steve. And everybody is gossiping about it, about him, down the halls, but no one has come with it to his face until now.
Maybe because if they do, they’d get their face punched, just like Eddie, who falls on the table, food now ruined and tangled in his curls, and Steve Harrington is all over him. Munson recalls the couple of times during math class that he daydreamed about getting to see this exact angle of the King Harrington, restricting him under his body weight, strong big hands around his neck… but this is definitely not the way he pictured it, because Steve is angry, throwing punches in his direction and Eddie is doing what he can to avoid the hits or to punch back, while wishing for his friends from the Hellfire Club to stop panicking and actually do something to help him.
Suddenly, Steve hesitates.
Eddie is panting, his big, brown eyes trembling, scared. A string of sun reflecting in them makes them look light brown, almost gold, for a flashy second.
“Stephanos…” he murmurs, but his hair is now shorter, blondish ginger, the eyeshadow is messy on his cheeks, a crown of laurels made of gold falling off his head.
A blade edges on his neck.
Steve jumps back in shock.
“Harrington! Munson! What is this?!”
Both of them would have preferred getting suspended, even expelled, anything but having to be stuck together at school after class. Ms. Kelly mentioned something about how working as a pair on a history project would help them to get along with each other, or at least to learn the lesson and not fist fight at school ever again.
The rain is falling once again outside, and the pouring sound fills the silence in the library. Ten minutes of awkwardness and unspoken words between the two, when the metalhead figures out time is not going to go any faster by having his ass glued on a chair. So he stands up and starts walking around between the stacks, eyeing and grabbing some books. He has a feeling, like eyes following him, but whenever he slightly checks, Steve’s staring right at the window.
But there is, in fact, an eye on him when he’s not looking. Harrington’s gaze is on Munson just as if by staring and analyzing him he’ll get the answer to his wonders: an explanation for that weird déja vú sensation from earlier. That flash image felt way too real just for a hallucination. It felt vivid, yet distant, like a really ancient memory with a lot of heavyweight.
The slam of a pill of books against the desk, so close to his face to be almost on his nose, snapped him out of his thoughts.
“The project's theme is Ancient Rome. These babies might help us, so take a look, Harrington, would ya’?” Eddie speaks and Steve hiccups in surprise. When did he-? How long has Steve been spacing out?
The metalhead takes a seat again, stretches his arms and tilts his head to the sides, making his neck go ‘crack’ loudly enough to irritate his now team-buddy. Satisfied by that, he extends a hand over the desk trying to grab one of the books, but Steve’s hand is already there and so they accidentally meet for a short instant before they both chicken out.
“Uh, I, sorry-”
“Nevermind, dude.”
“No, I-...you know, I’m sorry about earlier, at lunch? I was a douchebag. Shouldn't’ve got my nose in your business with Nancy Wheeler. I’m usually a nicer dude than that.”
“Sure. Just, grab your book, man.”
“I’m just not quite myself lately, been having trouble sleeping. Some… weird dreams, and stuff.”
“Dude. Gross.”
“Ah, no, not like that. Kinda, uh, the opposite? Someone had a blade against my throat, I think, not in a sexy way, definitely not my usual kind of wet dream and-” Halfway through, way too late, he realizes he’s rambling about his wet dreams in a conversation with Steve The Jock Harrington. What, genuinely, what on earth is wrong with him? “Oh, fuck, I mean- you know what, let’s start with the project, shall we?”
Eddie hides his red as hell face behind a huge open book with the Coliseum on the cover. Steve frowns, momentarily echoing what he just heard. Something about Eddie’s dreams, similar to his own. Not wanting to put a deeper thought into it, he removes nervously in his seat and prefers to pretend to be busy reading about the fall of the Roman Empire.
An hour later, they are not too far from the beginning point. Steve reads out loud whatever he finds interesting and useful, and Eddie writes it down, but gets distracted very easily and his handwriting is really messy, just like his hair, his clothes and his attitude. Steve suggests then, to exchange places and be himself the one who writes. It seems to be a good idea because Eddie now has the chance to let his Dungeon Master-self out and make these weird voices and exaggerated gestures he does in his campaigns, and with that, both of them seem to relax a little.
“How is it going so far, Harrington?”
“We still need to cover 500 words, I fear.” Steve answers, elbow on the table and hand on his hair, spinning the pen in his other hand.
“Well, let’s see what we’ve got here…”
Munson lets the chains on his jeans make a cling, cling sound as he walks back and forth calmly, and his cheap but strong cologne wafts through the air every time he spins. His rings cast a shine on the ceiling as he runs his fingers over the pages. Suddenly, his big eyes seem to catch something, and sparkle.
”The story of the Evil Emperor Geta and the Great Gladiator Stephanos.”
That sentence leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, that he ignores to continue:
“... One of the strongest tales of betrayal disguised as love. Or love disguised as betrayal, could be? Whaddya think, king?”
“Why would we add that to the project?” Steve asks, and clears his throat loudly, suddenly a knot is in his chest.
“Ms Kelly is gonna love some emotional weight aside from all the text about war and slavery.“
“Uh, probably…“
Geta and his twin brother Caracalla were still too young when the weight of Rome was placed into their hands after their father's sudden death; Of course they’d take it as a game, of course they’d get instantly blinded by the heavier jewelry, the shinier gold, allow themselves to be wrecked by the power that came after the ‘Emperors’ title. They grew into young adulthood having everything they could ever wish for just a single spoken word away, yet endlessly wanting more. Their names echoed in every corner of Rome did not feel enough anymore, if they could conquer colonies, cities, countries and even continents. They’d simply sit up in their imposing thrones and wait for the imperial forces to come back with victory to their names and a new land to call their own, new slaves to serve them, and new gladiators to entertain them.
Today, the coliseum roars, crowded, hundreds of people expectant over the next battle to begin soon in front of their eyes to enjoy. Emperor Caracalla wiggles on his throne, giggles with excitement, from the comfortable royal balcony, watching the Gladiators entering the arena to fight to death. He turns to the throne next to him, expecting to find his brother’s mischievous grin to share like usual… but not this time.
“Brother?”
“Something is wrong.” Geta warns out loud enough to be heard through all the noise around. There is a slight unease in his voice, his eyes are shut closed and his hands extended in front of himself in the air. That’s his ‘vessel of the Gods’ pose. “I can’t feel the Gods’ presence in me today.”
“May Dondus speak for them this time?” Caracalla grins widely, eyes shiny. Dondus, the little monkey with a dress, screechs on his shoulder and crawls to his head.
Geta inhales, and his cape flows behind him when he turns to sit back on his throne.
Exhales, and the battle begins.
Usually the sound of the swords tearing ripcages apart and a bloody show of barbarians taking each other down at the arena is enough to catch Geta’s attention and get him entertained for a while, nonetheless, this battle is turning slow and boring. His brother by his side is amazed; but it is never a hardship to impress Caracalla anyways. The crowd is chanting in amusement; but they have never seen anything better. Geta knows better and expects better.
And he’s pleased to see better, when there are just three gladiators left and one of them is fighting the other two on his own. He takes one down by stabbing his ribs and now it is a 1 vs 1 encounter. Geta finally pays actual attention, to that one specially, and notices this brave man is bare chested, he doesn't wear any protection other than his metallic shield and sword, and that notable physical agility and reflexes.
“Macrinus.” The Emperor calls the counselor behind him with a soft hand gesture. The tall, black man dressed in elite clothes responds by getting closer. “Why isn't that man wearing any armor?”
“He didn't want it, Your Majesty. Said he didn't need it.”
Geta frowns, confused. Now, that's intriguing. He didn't think anyone could last long at the arena without any armor, but this fearless gladiator shows him wrong, gets the opponent falling to the ground and instantly puts the sword over the neck, ready to end this battle once for all. Unexpectedly, he stays still and stares up to the royal balcony. He’s staring at Geta’s direction, locking eyes with him, asking for approval.
Those eyes, dark, intense. His hair, shoulder length, sticky on his sweaty face dirty by sand. The afternoon’s sun lights him like he’s the answer Geta’s been asking the Gods for. Breathing heavily, expectant.
Geta stands up from his throne to give the final verdict. Caracalla yells for blood, the crowd shouts. He extends his arm and shows his thumb down, meaning ‘DEATH’. The slight hint of a grin in his lips and a raised eyebrow, challenging, like he’s saying ‘do it if you can, gladiator.’
The gladiator grins too, and doesn’t get his eyes away from him, never; at this point it’s the most intense eye fight, even while deeply impaling his opponent’s throat with the sword, he’s staring at the Emperor who grins openly and shakes with excitement. The new ‘winner’ growls out of effort, wild as an animal, and takes his sword out. The fight is officially over. And Geta remembers to breathe again. Never felt so amazed by a fighter before.
“Macrinus.”
“Yes, Emperor?”
“Take this man to the palace, I want to reunite with him.”