Chapter Text
The dust did not settle on Pharsalus after the battle. The battle was decisive, decisive enough that it could very well have been the last battle Antony would fight in a while. But not decisive enough to not become a siege. The remnants of the Pompeian forces barricade themselves behind the camp walls like some animal too stubborn to die properly.
Victory decided to linger out of their reach just a little bit longer.
But it is so close Antony can almost taste it. His soldiers feel it too, he can tell . The wind is finally on their back. They need to bring it home this time. Not that the opposing side have another Dyrrhachium in them, but still. The sooner the better they wrap it all up, and not spend another second under the scorching sun of the East.
Never had the odds looked so stacked against them at dawn. As the avid gambler that he is, Antony would know a thing or two about the poor odds. Pompey had the larger force, the stronger cavalry, better position.
By sunset, the field now belongs entirely to Caesar.
The matter has dragged on long enough as it is. It is time to put it to rest for good.
Antony ducks beneath the flap of Caesar’s make-shift tent, wiping dust from his forearm. The guards outside barely glance at him. After years beside Caesar, he doesn’t even get an announcement anymore.
Inside, Caesar is alone reading some papyrus, standing with one hand braced against the edge of the table.
He almost looks as tired as Antony feels.
“You’re filthy.”
Antony glances down at himself. “You should see the cavalry.”
“I imagine I am seeing the cavalry.”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
Antony grins and wanders deeper into the tent. He pours himself some wine without permission and sits on the edge of the table itself, nudging aside a stack of tablets with his knee.
Caesar wouldn’t mind him.
“What is it?” Antony asks.
Caesar folds the letter once with care. “Brutus escaped the camp.”
Antony’s smile fades a fraction. “Did he.”
“He sent word ahead.” Caesar sets the letter down beside the lamp. “He’s coming to the camp tomorrow.”
“To surrender?”
“Yes.”
Antony snorts into his cup. “Bold.”
“I intend to pardon him,” says Caesar with a tone that usually indicates the finality of his decision. Antony ignores it anyway.
“What next? You’ll embrace him at the front gate? Tell him it’s forgiven and forgotten? No terms of surrender?”
Caesar merely watches him. That is exactly what he plans to do, huh.
Antony leans back on his palms, smirking now mostly for his own amusement. “Maybe give him a post while you’re at it.”
“Enough.”
The warmth that usually was beneath his patience vanishes so completely it is like a door slamming shut. It always manages to take Antony back by surprise.
It is a shame Antony knows when his vulgar streak is no longer amusing, is only when he takes a step too far.
Yet he can’t help himself but continue. “He chose Pompey, the man who proscribed his father, over you,” Antony says, less flippantly now. “He rides into your camp and that’s it? All is well?”
“All is well. All is well indeed.” Caesar picks up another dispatch, though his attention remains fixed on Antony. It is his final warning.
Caesar is not angry. Antony would prefer his anger, for it would have been easier. His anger is quick and bright when it makes a rare appearance. This restrained disappointment that he sees in Caesar’s eyes is much worse to deal with.
“I will not explain my actions to you. The only thing you should know is that he is coming and he is welcome to do so.”
Antony looks away first.
Outside, somewhere beyond the leather walls, a horse cries in the distance.
Antony rolls the wine cup slowly between his hands before speaking again.
Antony exhales through his nose and slides off the table at last. “Fine. I will personally make sure he is safe and secure. He can take my tent. I’ll hand feed him and tuck him to bed myself, if I have to.”
Now, this brings the amusement back to Caesar’s face although faintly.
“There’s the Antony I sent for.”
“The charming one?”
“The one who knows when to end an argument before it becomes tiresome.”
Antony clicks his tongue. “That is cruel.”
“You’ll live.”
“Apparently I will. I survive everything.”
Gods know it is the truth after all that he’s lived through.
Caesar finally steps closer, taking the cup from Antony’s hand before he spills it over the maps.
“Yourself especially,” Caesar murmurs and takes a sip of Antony’s cup.
The tension eases from Antony’s shoulders despite himself. He knows where this conversation would and would not end. No point in trying when Caesar no longer shares his bed with him. The pull is certainly there, and not one sided either. It always will, probably. But what is, or once was between them is something Antony would never dare to take risks with.
Labienus had once stood where Antony stands, as the second in command of Caesar. Antony had spent years fighting beneath him in Gaul. Labienus deserting them for Pompey was a shock to all. Trusted right hand man, not sticking through thick and thin? His betrayal was an opportunity Antony grasped with both hands.
On battle strategy, he gets the trickiest positions now that Caesar trusts him to deliver the results. He is not a joke anymore, not that he ever was to many, but still. The near impossible is expected of him. Being taken seriously, being depended on, success being an expectation of him instead of usual disappointment… Antony got a taste on once and there is nothing on Earth he craves more.
Antony did not know it then but as he replaced Labienus, he also got replaced.
Maybe it was to solidify Antony’s position in the camp, he tells himself. Not many secrets can be kept in a crammed space as a camp is. Legatus needs to be respected. Not that he minded or ever needed it, really. He’s always been obeyed and particularly liked by the lower ranks. Something about his easy charm appealing to the common men. It wasn’t a very rational explanation, Antony would admit. But a half convincing answer is better than no answer at all.
He leans one hip against the table instead, quieter now. “He better show some gratitude for this.”
“I’m not doing it for gratitude.”
“No,” Antony said. “That’s what makes it irritating.”
This time Caesar’s smile appears properly, brief and tired around the edges.
Marcus Junius Brutus is a guest, and an honoured one at that. He is absoluetly not a prisoner.
Caesar welcomes him with open arms.
It is a performance art in itself.
The set up of the scene sells it. The officers gathered outside the command pavilion watch with poorly concealed curiosity as Brutus is escorted through the camp. Dust still clings to the hem of his cloak from the road, his face is filthy with it.
Antony leans against one of the wooden support posts near the entrance, arms folded loosely across his chest. He had half expected Brutus to look worse after the retreat. More frightened, perhaps. More humbled. A bit more broken by the dishonour of his surrender.
Instead, Brutus arrives with the composed expression of a man attending a political dinner slightly later than intended.
“There you are.” says Caesar in a warm tone, as though he is greeting an old friend delayed by weather rather than a man who took a side in a civil war that declared him an enemy of Rome. “How happy I am to see you.”
Brutus bows his head. “Caesar.”
Caesar places both hands upon Brutus’ shoulders.
“I have come to surrender with no request of mercy-”
“Let’s talk none of it. You’re safe now.” says Caesar.
Antony has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing at the absurdity of it. ‘Safe’ is an interesting choice of word. As if Brutus himself was ever in danger of anything this passing year. The highest risk of harm was him falling off his horse and breaking his own neck.
Brutus lowers his gaze and Antony notices something unexpected flicker across his face. It is not relief, it is most definitely not gratitude. Gods help them all.
“I am sorry. I am so sorry. You are more generous than I deserv-,” says Brutus quietly.
“Hush now. It is I who am sorry. I presented you an impossible dilemma. You did only what you thought honorable, I am sure. I kiss you for it.”
Caesar kisses both of his cheeks.
“Thank you. I won’t forget this-”
The performance continues flawlessly.
Antony is not snickering under his breath, but he is not not-snorting either. Caesar hears it, naturally. His eyes flick toward Antony for half a second in silent warning before returning smoothly to Brutus.
Brutus notices him then for the first time since entering the camp. His expression shifts almost imperceptibly.
“Antony.”
“Brutus,”
There is no warmth in either of their tones but it is not hostility either. An indifferent acknowledgment is their usual go-to in rare occurrences they run into each other in social circles.
Brutus had always looked at Antony like a man observing a dog allowed inside by mistake, half expecting him to shit on the carpet metaphorically or physically.
“Long time no see.” adds Antony, just because he can.
“What of Pompey and Cicero? Please tell me they live.” Caesar has saved the most important question to later when all three of them are alone in a tent.
Because Antony gets to be in the room when important matters are discussed now.
“They both do.” Brutus hardly touches the plate in front of him. He seems to relax by increments beneath the attention, though Antony suspects he does not realise it himself. That is the genius of Caesar’s mercy. He dispenses it so generously men begin believing they earned it.
“Thank Gods. Where are they?” Caesar sounds ever grateful, ever attentive. Antony could believe Caesar would not sacrifice Antony and Brutus to have the duo confirmed dead, almost.
“They-” Brutus starts but does not finish the sentence. “They-”
“What, they fell onto their swords in a republican shame? Can’t find their way to Larissa?” Antony cuts in lightly after he shares a glance with Caesar. “Lightning struck Cicero dead mid-speech and Pompey took it as a bad omen?”
If looks could kill, Brutus would’ve been his murderer. Rarely one gets to see any emotion reflected so clearly on a stoic’s face, yet alone anger.
“Antony,” Caesar says, quiet but edged with warning.
“What?” Antony replies with easy innocence. “I am trying to help him find his words.” To prove precisely how little seriousness he intends to lend the moment, he reaches for an apple from the table and bites into it.
That is the role given to Antony in rooms like these: to be vulgar enough that everyone else is driven toward Caesar’s noble civility by instinct alone. Antony can always be trusted to take the jest one step too far. Beside him, Caesar appears measured, merciful, impossibly dignified. It is a game they have played so long neither of them needs to acknowledge it anymore.
Brutus decides, rightfully, to ignore his presence. He turns slightly toward Caesar instead, offering him a sealed letter.
“Cicero asked me to deliver this to you,” he says. “He is making his way back to Rome.”
“What a pity he could not come himself,” Antony remarks at once.
Brutus does not so much as glance at him.
“I am sure he has his reasons,” Caesar says smoothly, taking the letter from Brutus’ hand. He sets it beside his plate unopened, an act intended to come off as deeply respectful. “Thank you, Brutus.”
Brutus inclines his head once.
Caesar’s expression shifts into something more attentive.
“And the others?” he asks. “Pompey? Scipio? Surely they cannot mean to continue this.”
Brutus looks the perfect picture of simply resigned.
“The others are not surrendering,” he says slowly. “There was… a disagreement among them after the defeat.”
“That is one word for it.”
“Pompey fled before the siege,” Brutus continues, ignoring Antony with increasing expertise. “Last I heard, he intended to sail for Lesbos. Egypt was being discussed as a final destination.”
At the mention of Egypt, Caesar’s brow tightens faintly.
“My uncle was holding the camp at Dyrrhachium. Scipio went to join him.” Brutus pauses. “They mean to cross into Africa.”
“So,” Caesar remarks, almost to himself, “our quarrel means to travel the breadth of the world.”
Victory, the cruel mistress that she is, finally graces them with her presence the following day. Despite her delayed arrival to the party, she is welcomed well with the celebrations arupting from the camp.
A celebration has been a long overdue and their soldiers have earned their rations by capturing the enemy camp along with its inventory.
It is not Antony’s place to break it to them that their fight is very much not over.
Once the captured camp is put to the torch, Antony throws himself into celebration as if Rome is on the horizon anytime soon. He drinks with the men he has fought beside for years, loud and easy in their company. He joins their games, loses absurd amounts of money on wagers he does not remotely care about, yet he plays mad for the fun of it all. It doesn’t matter, they are winners together this day.
Antony is exactly where he should be. He never belonged anywhere as much as he belongs to his camp, to his soldiers, to this camp.
By the evening meal he is deep enough in wine to trade insults and recollections with Publius Sulla and Domitius Calvinus as though the three of them have ever shared anything resembling affection. Somehow it only makes Caesar more amused. He watches them from across the table with that infuriating air of restrained fondness, as though they are an unruly spectacle arranged for his entertainment.
A sense of camaraderie takes a hold of Antony. Yes, he thinks. This is how it is meant to be. Their differences and ambitions could be yesterday’s and will continue to be tomorrow’s problems, but they do not belong to this moment.
Antony does not bother announcing himself. It’s his tent after all.
Inside he finds Brutus sitting with his face in his hands. He looks up to the sudden interruption.
Eros acknowledges him with a simple “Dominus.” Antony raises his arms to convey the message that he wants to be out of his armour, and he wants to be out of it now.
“Caesar asked me to tell you,” says Antony, as Eros reaches to the straps that holds the plate in place. “that you were missed at dinner.”
“I wasn’t aware my attendance was expected,” replies Brutus in a dry tone.
“Nothing is expected of you,” Antony says lightly. “You’re a guest.”
“Then I ought to behave like one and not overstay my welcome.”
Antony does not bother answering that directly. His laughter does the work well enough on its own. “You missed quite the dinner,” he says instead. Your camp’s supplies were put to good use. For once.”
“I am certain Caesar would understand why I am not in the mood to celebrate.”
Antony tilts his head slightly, Oh this will be fun.
“Why not? I was under the impression you were his friend now.” His mouth curves lazily around the words. “And this is a very happy day for Caesar and his friends. Unless that’s changed again.”
Brutus pointedly refuses to look at him.
Naturally, Antony pushes further.
“Your friendship is a flickering thing, isn’t it?” he says, his tone getting a bit more pointed than he intends. “It is hard to keep up.”
That finally brings the attention of Brutus back on him again. They looki into each other’s eyes. Antony wonders what Brutus sees in him, as he is not sure what he himself is seeing.
“That will be all,” he says to Eros when he is left in his tunic, without breaking eye contact with Brutus.
“Yes, dominus.” The flap falls closed behind Eros in his rush to leave them be. Clever man.
Silence settles at once.
Brutus looks different than the man Antony sees on the occasions they run into each other when both happen to be in Rome. Ever the stoic, that man is carefully contained. The Brutus Antony usually encounters, carries himself with such restraint that people who know him would wonder if he has any emotions at all, let alone ones he’s willing to display. Antony knew better than most, but he sometimes doubts the memories he holds because of how detached they are from the man himself.
No, this Brutus resembles the young man he knew once. The one that was free to express whatever he was feeling. Well, more free than whoever he grew up to be. He could try to keep it behind his facade of indifference as long as he likes now. Antony knows that he is under Brutus’ skin.
Antony lays down onto the nearest sofa. This will be fun.
“Do you keep up with my friends, Antony? I never knew.” Brutus reciprocates. His tone of fake indifference is a futile attempt, Antony would say.
“Well, I consider myself somewhat of an authority in the matter, actually. Wouldn’t you say so?”
Brutus’ expression hardens by a fraction. “I’d say it is easier to speak when you have no principles to be tested.”
That is a deflection if Antony ever heard one. Yet, he bites.
“My principles are tested alright. I chose the winning side and stayed loyal to him afterward. Very easy.”
“Not all of us can be simple creatures like you, Antony.” Brutus says, the sharpness in his voice enough to cut through the leather walls. “You consider blind loyalty to be a virtue. Some of us have loyalty to Rome, to the Republic. That is a principle.”
Oh, this is the best time Antony’s had in a while. The day is not done bearing gifts, it seems. The only thing that could improve it even more was if the flock that usually surrounded Brutus was there with them in this moment, to witness how affected Brutus could really be.
“I won’t accept that the loyalty in itself is not a virtue. But for the sake of the argument,” Antony says, reclining further into the sofa as though this were merely an idle debate over wine. As casual as he pretends to be, as the circumstane allows him to be, as though his pulse is not hammering hard enough to ring in his ears. ”Let’s assume you are right, that there is a hierarchy to these loyalties depending on the subject of it,”
His eyes remain fixed on Brutus’. “Loyalty to the Republic at the very top.”
Antony lets the silence stretch deliberately between them.
“So what does that make the betrayers of such loyalty?” he asks softly. “Would you rank them beneath a man who never claimed to possess it at all?”
Brutus’ face goes still.
“And what,” he asks quietly, “does it say of your virtues that you surrendered yourself to a declared enemy of the State when there was never any danger to you at all?”
“You speak of things you don’t know anything about.”
“I know well enough,” Antony leans forward, elbows braced against his knees. “Did you know Caesar forbade anyone from harming you? We were ordered to take you alive only if you surrendered willingly. After every battle he sent men searching the field to see whether you were wounded. Or dead.”
He watches the realization strike.
Brutus put his face in his hands. So he didn’t know.
Because Antony has spent years watching Caesar bend rules that would break for any other man where Brutus is concerned. It has always irritated him in ways he has never cared to examine too closely.
Maybe Caesar was not his blood after all. Antony doesn’t see the resemblance, physically or personality wise. Not to the pragmatic man he came to know.
Brutus says something under his breath. His face is covered so Antony catches only fragments of it.
“What was that?”
Brutus drops his hands abruptly and looks at him with open fury.
“Would you shut up for once?” says Brutus, with a crack in his voice that is small but unmistakable.
Antony feels it like a spark against dry tinder.
“Oh, now that is an interesting question,” he says softly. “Do I ever know when to stop speaking?” He tilts his head. “You knew me well enough once. What do you think?”
Just because he let Brutus off earlier, does not mean that he won’t make him acknowledge it ever. Not since it is the only thing he could think about, being this close to Athens.
Do you think of me as often as I think of you?
Years collapse between them, a young versions of them: Brutus, with his ease in affections, and Antony, stupid enough to mistake closeness for permanence. Antony sees it all flash across Brutus’ face before anger burns over it again.
“Shut up,” Brutus snaps.
Antony rises before he fully decides to.
“What if I don’t?”
Brutus closes the distance between them in two strides.
It does not feel entirely like a decision after that.
One moment they are arguing, the next Brutus grabs fistfuls of Antony’s tunic and shoves him hard enough that Antony collides with the bed. The movement is fueled less by violence than by something far messier that has built up over the course of years.
Antony laughs, breathless and disbelieving all at once.
“There you are,” he murmurs.
Brutus kisses him like he is trying to silence him by force, and perhaps he is.
It is a mess, his tongue forcing its way into Antony’s mouth, their teeth clangs against each other. Antony drags Brutus closer with an arm wrapped around his waist.
He opens his eyes to see Brutus has closed his. It is the intensity of his expression that undoes Antony. The candlelight emphasises the creases on his face, marks of the years they spent apart, yet Brutus had never more resembled to his first love. He is showing some sort of emotion, which is more than he could say about their recent encounters. Still, his face is twisted with frustration, with fury. Like he despises himself for this almost as much as he despises Antony.
Something is better than nothing.
He would’ve preferred to go slower, to keep a little control before he goes mad. He would like to savour the moment, to store the memory to repeat in his head again and agaiin. He never dared to think of having Brutus again, not even in his wildest dreams.
But unlike his recollections, there is nothing gentle about this. No hesitation, no tenderness buried beneath. Their rush was out of passion then. Now, Brutus kisses him hard enough to bruise, teeth catching against Antony’s mouth with enough force to hurt. It feels less like desire and more like punishment.
Antony answers him in kind.
Now that the spell they were both under has broken, their mouths clash together, ugly and desperate. Years of resentment collapse into something viciously physical. Brutus still tries to speak between kisses. He takes sharp, furious little breaths against Antony’s lips as though he cannot stop arguing with him even now.
Without breaking the kiss, Antony tightens his grip on Brutus’ waist and flips them over, pinning Brutus beneath his weight.
Much better.
Brutus tries to pul back from the kiss, to breathe or to speak, it doesn’t matter. Antony follows immediately, unwilling to give him even that inch of distance. If Brutus dies of suffocation, then so be it. If Brutus intends to start thinking again, Antony would rather suffocate him first.
The thought nearly makes him laugh into the kiss.
“Oh, there you are,” he murmurs against Brutus’ mouth, almost mocking.
Brutus bites him hard enough to split the skin of his lower lip.
Antony laughs.
He grabs a fistful of Brutus’ hair and pulls just enough to force his head back, breaking the kiss for one heated second. Brutus looks furious beneath him, breathing hard, cheeks flushed with anger more than desire.
He gets rid of his clothing in a swift and practiced motion. Antony worries that it’s enough time for Brutus to recover some dignity to stop this. Instead, Brutus loses his own clothing and wraps his legs around Antony’s waist.
Antony is a gone man.
He reaches blindly toward the small flask of oil near the bedside, never taking his eyes off Brutus for long. He could turn him over, make this easier for the both of them. But Antony cannot bear the thought of not seeing him. Too many years spent fucking strangers from behind while imagining they are Brutus.
He takes both of Brutus’ legs above his shoulders and settles between them, dragging another sharp breath from him. Brutus glares up at him like he still wants to kill him for it and the hatred only feeds the fire burning through Antony’s veins.
“Still glaring at me?” Antony mutters.
“You are still talking.”
“Good. Thought I might’ve broken you already.”
His finger finds the hole. A second soon follows, then a third, all while he pumps his own dick up and down.
Brutus’ half hard dick flops between them. How cute.
Antony may have rushed the preparation a little. It is his dick that pays the price, feeling the crush of tightness when he lines it up and pushes the tip in.
That earns him a yell and a smack in the head. “Give a warning, will ya?”
“Too late for that. Next time huh?”
As if there was ever going to be a next time.
Antony catches both of Brutus’ wrists and pins them above his head when he starts pushing back against him again, more instinct than necessity. The position folds Brutus beneath him even more, all anger and flushed skin and barely restrained sounds that seems to be dragged unwillingly from his throat.
Then, Antony starts to move.
In each move, he stretches Brutus further. His fingers are digging into his skin. Brutus would be lucky if he has no bruising around them tomorrow. His unattended dick is fully hard against Antony’s abdomen, smearing cold precum.
A wanton expression takes over his face. The unbreakable Brutus, reduced to this mess.
Antony is the one who brought him to the point of abandon. Nobody else. Just thinking about it is enough to bring him close, fuck. But another line of thought slips through the haze in Antony’s mind, ugly and impossible to ignore.
Seducing Brutus back to his bed once again, what does that say about Antony?
Nothing flattering, surely.
What sort of man Antony must be to tempt someone like Brutus into abandoning his composure, his principles, his self-control. Nothing good, indeed.
Antony almost laughs at himself for even asking the question. Since when has he cared what his desires say about him? Since his youth, men have called him shameless, indulgent, excessive, ruled by appetite instead of reason, and they had reasons to do so.
It is no different than any of the stuff he heard all his life. It doesn’t matter, not at all. What matters is that he won. He bet on the right dog for once and won. He became somebody. As soon as he did, Brutus found his way back to him.
Brutus kissed him first.
Brutus crossed the distance between them of his own accord, found his way back after everything he claims to believe about duty and virtue and loyalty. After all that talk about principles, after all that cold restraint, he still ended up in Antony’s bed with his hands tangled in Antony’s clothes like a man starving.
The realization floods through Antony with something dangerously close to triumph.
Brutus came back to him.
The thought turns almost possessive inside Antony’s chest.
He presses his forehead briefly against Brutus’ shoulder, breathing hard, and feels Brutus tense beneath him as though he expects another mocking remark. He’s been quiet, awfully quiet.
So, he fucks him with abandon.
A moan escapes Brutus. His eyes are half closed in pleasure.
Antony rewards him by reclaiming his mouth. Everything between them feels bruising now: every touch is too rough, every breath too sharp. This is not the reunion he envisioned it to be but this is the reunion he gets to have.