Title: Four Men Brutus Could Have Slept With
Pairing/Character: Brutus/Cassius, Brutus/Caesar, Brutus/Marc Antony, Brutus/Cicero
Summary: What could be but isn't
Disclaimer: HBO/BBC owns Rome
When Brutus thought of Cassius, he thought of worship.
It was the way Cassius looked at him: a kind of unconditional admiration and trust for the man Cassius believed him to be. The strong, just defender of the Republic hunted, chased, and eventually subdued. Subdued now, but not forever.
Cassius trusted Brutus, so Brutus had thought it easy to trust Cassius in return.
It took Brutus time to see the folly of that.
When Cicero handed him that damned letter, in defense of Republican principles, Brutus´ blood ran cold. Signed by his name, backed by his reputation the letter could destroy him entirely. He could die, in agony and fear, simply because Caesar had finally had enough of Brutus´ half-loyalty, half-friendship.
Then, he had found that Cassius and his own mother, Servilia, had penned the wretched document. Cassius must have believed that Brutus would do this himself were he capable. He must have believed Brutus would want it.
If Brutus slept with Cassius, it would have tasted like surrender. It would have felt like acceptance of the image of a hero.
Cassius would love unconditionally, giving whatever Brutus wanted and taking only what Brutus gave. He would push Brutus down onto the bed and curl around him. He would take his time exploring every flinch, every hiss and every sigh of the body he worshipped.
Brutus would be afraid. His instinct would be to flee from the passion that Cassius had to offer. It was too much, and he was only one man; but once he was there, under Cassius´ fingertips, Brutus wouldn´t be able to run. He wouldn´t be able to because Cassius would soothe him through his fears, kiss away the irrationalities that made him turn from a gift so freely given.
Cassius would, perhaps after coaxing Brutus through a delicate, shaking release already, push inside where no one had ever before (inappropriate to do this, this way, with slaves) and through the pain Brutus would realize that he had made a sacrifice that he couldn´t take back.
Afterwards, they would lie together and Brutus would know that he could never, ever leave.
- - - -
Brutus had known Caesar for a long, long time. At least, he´d thought he had. Eventually, after Caesar had crossed the Rubicon, Brutus had been forced to admit that perhaps he didn´t know Caesar at all.
As Brutus looked back, he realized that all his decisions from there forward had been based on fear of that one man. First, he fled from Rome, with Cato and Pompey and Cicero. Fled from Rome like some sort of coward, or, in Cicero´s words, as a sheep.
They should have beaten Caesar. They outnumbered him, once they turned to fight. They should have had the gods on their side; after all, they fought for the Republic. Marc Antony should have stayed in Rome, far away from the danger, far away from the certain defeat that Pompey´s armies spelled out in blood and dust, and Pompey´s forces should have crushed the uprising once and for all.
Brutus still couldn´t explain what had happened in the heat of that battle. He didn´t think about it anymore. The only emotion that came to mind was the curling of shame in his stomach as he rode into Caesar´s camp
Rome, boy?’ Cicero asked. We are Rome.’
and the sickness that overwhelmed him, sitting at Caesar´s table, accepting his hospitality and his friendship, when they had battled as enemies so recently.
Brutus was still afraid. When he found out the truth of the letter that was published, he had run straight to Caesar, insisting that it wasn´t him. Pleading for his life, without the words to come out and admit Caesar´s power over him. Caesar didn´t believe him; Brutus realized as much when Caesar slipped away from the conversation, snapping his fingers to draw two guards to his back. Caesar didn´t believe him or trust him, and Brutus´ life was in terrible danger.
Brutus knew that if Caesar named terms, ways of making his situation better, that he would jump to it in a second, shame be damned. If Caesar barely indicated so, Brutus would be on his knees, hardness in his mouth, Caesar´s hands tangled in his hair. He would let Caesar do whatever he wished.
There was a hunger in Caesar´s eyes when he looked at Brutus; he would be amenable to a relationship. This one, especially; the public wouldn´t shame Caesar, as they had with Servilia. No, instead, they would shame Brutus. His name would be further soiled, and Caesar´s more pristine.
It would be true in more ways than the public could possibly comprehend.
Brutus would do whatever Caesar said, ignoring the pain in Cassius´ eyes, the disgust in Cicero´s. He would do it for fear of his life. Eventually, the helpless rage he felt at his own position would fade into the background, and he might even begin to believe it when Caesar called him beautiful.
Maybe, one day, he would realize where he was, and how he had gotten there. Maybe, on that day, he would be able to follow Cato´s example and, finally, kill himself.
- - - -
With Marc Antony, it would be rough.
Antony would draw out Brutus with the dangerous look in his eyes, with the fine control he had over his body and with his pure magnetism. He would just slant an eyebrow, and Brutus would follow. Antony would slam Brutus against a wall, pinning him in place, before he would even consider kissing him. He would treat Brutus as an opposing army to be conquered and subdued.
That isn´t to say that Brutus wouldn´t fight back. When Antony would try to coax Brutus into the bedroom, Brutus would hit him with a smokescreen of words, venomous and bitter. He would pretend disinterest; he would pretend he didn´t recognize the play of light on Antony´s muscles or the careless way he took all the attention of a room and bent it towards himself.
Antony would ignore the words; he would take Brutus and drag him away. He would push Brutus down on the bed, and Brutus would wrestle back. Antony would get a grip on Brutus´ wrists, and slam them down on either side of his head.
Brutus would be reminded of the day in the Senate chamber, the day when Antony found him and Cicero speaking about Caesar, still in Egypt after more than nine months. He would remember how hard Antony squeezed Cicero´s hands, and how Cicero fell to his knees.
Brutus would twist underneath Antony, but Antony could defeat Brutus blindfolded with his hands tied. He was a soldier, and Brutus wouldn´t stand a chance.
The struggle would transform without Brutus even realizing it. Suddenly, Antony would have fingers stretching Brutus open, and Brutus would curl up into Antony, wordlessly pleading for something, anything. Antony would silence Brutus with a rough kiss, pulling his fingers out and leaving Brutus aching.
Finally, Antony would fold Brutus up and push inside him, as Brutus would shriek with the long-anticipated pain, pain that felt so good.
Antony would leave dark marks on Brutus´ wrist. He wouldn´t grip with anything less than iron, and he would turn Brutus inside out and hurt him and make him beg for more.
Afterwards, Antony would make Brutus feel like the weak one, like a woman. Maybe, if Brutus was very lucky, Antony would eventually come to need Brutus´ fight and submission as much as Brutus did. Maybe, eventually, they would work their way to a rough equality.
Then again, maybe they wouldn´t.
- - - -
Falling in love with Cicero would be easy. It would be clean. Choosing Cicero would be like choosing the good fight, choosing the Republic over Caesar. It would be accepting himself, from the treason of fleeing Rome to the dishonor of surrendering, finally, to Caesar´s armies. Cicero had fought on the same side as Brutus through this whole black conflict.
Brutus remembered, Cicero had been surprised and proud, very proud, of the letter credited to Brutus´ name.
If Cicero seduced Brutus, it would be with words. He would use fiery phrases and sentences that cut straight to Brutus´ core. Brutus wouldn´t care, so much, about the way Cicero said what he meant; what he did care about was the way Cicero meant what he said. Cicero could hide his meaning in shades of words and grammar, speaking in circles around Caesar and Marc Antony, but he wouldn´t with Brutus. Cicero felt so deeply what he said; it was the only way he could make others feel so deeply as he.
Brutus would respond to the feelings. He would bat clever phrases around with Cicero in a clumsy attempt to respond in kind, and his stomach would twist at Cicero´s ready smile. Not twist in shame, but in a kind of want that Brutus would never be able to get enough of.
When they fell into bed together, it would be as equals. If they tussled, it would be to the tune of laughter and the interruption of kisses and feather-light touches. Brutus would get lost in Cicero´s mouth and his hands, hands that said just as much about Cicero as his words did.
Hands that Antony had crushed without a thought, sending Cicero to his knees. Sending a pang through Brutus´ center that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the wish that he were in Marc Antony´s place.
Afterwards, they would stay together. They would sleep or they would talk, and they would fall into an easy back-and-forth, and they would save the Republic from Caesar. Maybe.
Gods, if only it could be so.
Disclaimer:Characters (real and fictional) aren't mine, no money is made with these stories and history isn't changed. Damn.