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The night was still.
Octavius lay beside Jedediah, their bodies close but not quite touching, the warmth of his lover a steady presence. He could rest, at last.
The day had been long—training drills, endless meetings, feigned interest in discussions that held no true weight. And as his heart demanded, he had carved out time for Jedediah when all was said and done. By all accounts, sleep should have come easily.
And yet.
He remained awake, his back pressed against a suffocatingly warm blanket, staring up at a ceiling of white marble. Growing more impatient with every slow, agonising second.
No matter how much he tossed and turned, no matter how close he came to waking Jedediah, sleep refused to come. Something must've been wrong with him.
With a quiet sigh, he turned onto his side. If he could not sleep, then he would do the next best thing : admire. He looked over at Jedediah. blond lashes brushing his cheek, delicate in the moonlight. He traced the rise and fall of his chest, the unconscious twitch of his fingers, the slight parting of his lips —bitten through with his assistance.
For a man constantly in motion, always stirring up trouble, he looked incredibly peaceful. Perhaps that was what stopped Octavius from reaching out. This rare stillness was not to be disturbed.
Once, the nights had not been so quiet.
In another life, hell unfurled with dawn and nights meant vigilance. They were filled with the scent of iron thick in the air, the clash of metal, the screams of dying men.
He had been a good soldier. There had been no other choice.
Ruthless. Efficient. His men had trusted him because he did what needed to be done. Fair ? No. Not as often as he should have been. War had no room for fairness.
Octavius had been a good soldier. But he had not been a good man.
He had to be great. And for that, he could not have been good.
He had been cruel and justified being so. But only then. Only when he had been princeps, emperor of Rome, bigger and greater than any man should ever have been allowed to. Only when it had been the necessary way to be. Only, only empty excuses could make up for the fact that in the end, it had been cruelty still.
And if he were honest, he would admit it had never truly left him.
He remembered standing in empty fields, armor slick with sweat and red, sword in hand —or through it, he could not quite place which pain was his.
He had stood in a sea of corpses, knees shaking, praying for clean hands or forgiveness which would never come.
He had washed his hands a thousand times, until skin had cracked and new blood seeped through old scars, but the stains remained when he closed his eyes.
He felt dirty at the thought alone.
Time had dulled the sharpest of his memories, but they lingered at the edges. Beneath his fingernails to be bitten off. Or beneath his tongue to be chewed on, waiting.
He had been given a second chance. Here, in this world, he was no general—or not in the way he once was. He was not a murderer. A sinner, perhaps, but his sins were different now. Smaller. Quieter. Pure even.
In this life, he was lying in a bed that was soft, in a home that was safe, next to a man who kept him sane. How strange it was, to go from blood-soaked fields to warm sheets and warmer hands. From war cries to murmured affections. He had spent so long believing he would die on the battlefield that he had never imagined a life beyond it. Never allowed himself to imagine he could be something more than a weapon.
In this life, he was simply Octavius. A man who laughed too loudly too often, who fumbled with modern devices, who loved with all the heart he had left. A man who had found warmth in the arms of another man. Who craved that warmth now more than ever, so near yet unreachable.
On nights like these, he wondered if that was enough.
Beside him, Jedediah stirred, muttering something incoherent in his sleep. Octavius turned his head, watching how moonlight painted his features in silver and shadow.
He exhaled softly, closing his eyes. He would not wake him. It would do no good to burden him with these thoughts. He would carry on, as he always had. Alone, as he always had been. Change would do no good.
Even as he resolved to do so, he remained doubtful. He had begun to work himself into a state of near frenzy and very few people had managed to pull him out of there. Among them was Jedediah, but he refused to disturb him.
How he wanted to leave these thoughts behind.
He almost longed for the aching exhaustion of battle, the burn in his legs that had once made sleep inevitable. Back then, pushing forward had been his only option. Retreat meant surrender and surrender meant leaving Rome in the hands of another. And that was a fate worse than death.
When Rome had been on the line, there had been no room for doubt. Hesitation was a luxury a soldier could not afford. He had believed, once, that he fought for glory, for honor. As the years had worn on, as comrades fell and victories turned hollow, he had begun to wonder and that– that was a dangerous thing.
He had started to doubt the pride he felt when his sword dragged against flesh, tried to forget how it had cleaved through armor, bone, and sinew. All prime cuts. The momentary resistance before the give. When all else was silent, he would hear the cries of the fallen—some enemies, some allies—each one punctuating the air like a tolling bell, another name added to the list of lives he had taken or failed to save.
It was all distant now but it was still echoing, like a ringing in his ears he couldn't get rid of no matter how loud other things were. After all, it had been his entire world.
He had not allowed himself to think too deeply then. He had been a good soldier. And to be a good soldier, he had to silence the part of himself that questioned, that hesitated, that mourned.
In the quiet of this new life, those silenced thoughts found their voice again.
He fought to keep his eyes open, knowing what he would see if he were to give in. In the daylight, it was easy to believe he had left that man behind.
He knew better now.
Because he could still feel the weight of a blade in his hands. And part of him feared he always would.
His body remembered what his mind tried to spare him.
His lungs clenched, thick with the phantom stench of burning flesh. The weight of armor pressed against his chest, suffocating. On good days, it meant protection. On others it was all but a cage.
It had almost killed him once. He couldn't quite remember what, surely an arrow or any other sharp, deadly thing, but something had gone through it and he needed to tend to the wound quickly. Quicker than time allowed. His armor only got in the way. He had clawed at it then, torn it off in desperation, heedless of who saw, heedless of how it made him vulnerable. He had needed to see if he was still whole. If a lancer’s fury had taken everything—flesh, soul, heart.
Marcus had saved him. As he always did. Put him back together. As he had been used to. Pulled him from the brink, from himself, from the blades that would have seen him fall.
Octavius should have been grateful.
Instead, he had only hoped for a time when there would be no one left to save.
His breath hitched. Too loud. Too much. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms.
He was here. He was here. Beside Jedediah. Not there. Not among the dead, beneath dirt and stomping feet.
And yet—
His pulse pounded, a war drum in his ears, relentless. The sheets tangled around his legs, too tight, too constricting. Like the grip of a dying man, of a child reaching for his wrist. The rasp of a voice begging, pleading for—
A sharp inhale. Quick, and ragged. His body convulsed with the force of it. And that was the sound that did it.
A shift beside him. The warmth next to him stirred.
“Octavius?”
Jedediah’s voice, thick with sleep, edged with something else. Concern.
The battlefield cracked. Splintered. The ghosts howled, furious at being abandoned.
And then they were gone.
Octavius did not catch his breath until Jedediah’s arms tired of holding him.
—
The morning found them tangled together, tight like a double string knot.
They did not speak of it. It was inconsequential.
—
Such bouts of weakness were supposed to be occasional. Temporary. Octavius should have been back to normal.
He found, quite quickly, that he could not.
The following night quietly blended into a battlefield.
The sun was setting, burning the sky in streaks of red and gold. On any other day, it would have been beautiful.
Octavius' sword —where was it ?—his shield lost in the chaos, his body screamed at him to move, move, move—
But God.
He was exhausted.
This was the last push. The enemy had fallen back, their formation breaking, but they would not surrender. Desperation made men reckless. Octavius knew this. He had banked on it.
Arrows cut through the sky. He felt the whisper of one just past his ear, another tearing through flesh—not his, not his thank Jupiter—but close enough that warm blood splattered across his cheek. He could not stay still.
He stepped forward and the ground squelched underfoot. He did not look down. He knew what awaited him there. He knew because he had seen it before, a thousand times over. And he did not wish to see it once more.
Beyond him, the river ran red.
Someone called his name.
No—no, they hadn’t. No one here called him by name. Not on the battlefield. He was General, he was Roman, he was nothing more than a piece on a board, moving forward, always forward. The enemy had retreated to the water, but they weren’t drowning fast enough. He had given the order—no survivors, no retreat, no mercy, no—
Pain. White-hot, sudden, ripping through his side like the teeth of a hunting dog.
His knees buckled.
He hit the ground hard. His fingers clawed at the earth, at the blood-wet grass, trying to breathe through the searing pain as something warm spilled down his stomach. His own ? Someone else’s ? And really– did it matter ? All war was good and all of it was fair. Blood was blood, no matter how red.
He could hear faint footsteps in the background. He had to get up. Get away. Act quickly or else–
Someone else had that idea.
A boy.
A Gaul, barely past childhood, stood over him with wide, frantic eyes, a dagger in his trembling grip. Octavius had seen this before. The tell-tale shaking to a man's hands before the first kill, the hesitation that would cost them their life.
Except this was no man. He did not belong here. He had no right to stand before him here with such hatred in his too wide eyes. He should not know what such vile things were yet.
He should not be here at all.
Octavius reached for the knife at his hip.
The boy moved first.
A blur of metal. A grunt that might have been his own.
And then—
Darkness.
No. No, that wasn’t right.
Octavius woke with a start, his body aching like he had just been stabbed, his wound burning, splitting him apart. He clutched at his side, searching, finding—
Nothing.
His fingers pressed against smooth, unbroken skin.
The pain was gone. The scar that should have been there —the proof, the punishment, all of it— gone. As if it had not happened.
As if it had happened to someone else.
“Hey,” someone called. "You alright ?"
Jedediah’s voice, warm. Real. A hand brushed his arm, gentle, steadying. Octavius hated the fact that he had to do this.
Octavius gripped his side tighter to steady himself.
"I will be." A kiss to the forehead. "Go back to sleep."
—
He should have known these would not be a one time occurrence.
—
Jedediah was cold beside him, and that was how he knew he was dreaming again.
War was warm metal and sticky blood and sweat pouring into open wounds. War was the snap of bone underweight and the crash of teeth against teeth or worse, against stone. War was—
The silence between dying breaths. The gap between the blow and the scream.
The dream did not ease him in. There was no transition. One moment he was at rest or close to it, and the next, the world was red.
Not just blood red—no, that would be too kind. Human violence was an ordinary thing. There was no surprise in it anymore. Rather— red like the sun when it set fire to the sky, red like the torn banners that still fluttered long after the men beneath them had fallen. Red like the inside of a man when you cut too deep and watch the soul give up on the body.
Burning red like the sand in his mouth, choking him, grinding against his teeth as he struggles to breathe.
He is standing —then an instant, running. The wind roars, but it carries voices. A name, unknown, his, Augustus, Augustus —he is never Octavius in this life, it is too small of a name. It is screamed louder but he does not look back. If he turns, if he slows, the moment will catch him. The moment with the Gaul, the moment with the torn armor, the moment when his own body fails—
No.
He keeps running. He wants to give up. He does not know where he is going. He wants it to be home. The field stretches forever, green tinted red, shifting under his feet like a living thing. He stumbles over bodies, not all of them whole, not all of them still. They reach for him, fingers curling in the dirt, dragging themselves forward with what little they have left. Too much.
He does not stop. He cannot.
And then—
The dagger.
It is always that blasted thing.
It is never in his hand, only in his flesh. A flicker of steel, a whisper of wind, and then he is pinned in place, breath stolen, heat spilling from him in thick, choking waves. He looks down. The blade is buried deep, hungry. The hilt pressed to his stomach like an old friend’s hand. When he tries to step forward, his body does not move the way it should. Something inside him is slipping, unspooling.
His knees hit the ground. Again. They might break this time. His hands find the dirt. Warm, wet, red. Mad, mad colors.
He is not alone. It is not the Gaul this time.
Boots stop beside him, familiar in their shape, in their placement. He knows them like he knows the cadence of his own march, like he knows the placement of each scar on his left thigh or the way his breath fogs in the cold.
He knows which means he does not look up. He cannot. Because if he does, he will see—
Jedediah.
—
There was no meaning behind these dreams anymore, Octavius reasoned the morning after.
Realistically, Octavius knew Jedediah would not betray him —at least, not in such an obvious way. He wouldn't settle for such an easy, backhanded approach. Something with no fight, no fire. And where would he even get that dagger ? It is nonsensical, he knows, but fear does not obey reason. And as his uncle had once been betrayed, one day, he knew he would be too. It was a family curse.
Still, for now, the fear was small enough to be ignored. When the man who caused it was so radiant, there was very little hammering his heart could do that he couldn't interpret as a wild quest for love. For now, he could remain calm in this place. And nothing shy of a second death could make him look away from deep blue eyes.
It was only when they closed that the terror creeped back in.
—
The dream started as it always did– in a silent battlefield. The sky hung low and heavy with twice as many birds in it as usual.
Octavius stood at the edge of a ruined city, where bones of broken temples jut from the earth. A child might think it to be the ribs of some ancient, rotting beast but there was not as much glory to it in his eyes.
Octavius tightened his grip on his sword. He did not remember drawing it, but it was warm like a living thing, like something that had been drinking.
He was waiting for–
A sound. A footstep behind him. It was expected. This suffering had become repetitive.
He turned, calm. There was no need to panic when his troops had already gone through the city. It was empty.
For a while, at least, he believed it was.
In an instant, figures emerge from the haze, spectral in the half-light. Some wear armor, some are draped in bloodied tunics, some are no more than shadows with hollow, hungry eyes. Their mouths move, but the wind swallows their words. Their faces, unrecognisable. It is a small mercy.
One steps forward.
Their hands are cupped around something, something small, something fragile. Octavius reaches for it, but the man flinches back, cradling the thing in his palms as if it will shatter at the slightest touch. When he lifts his hands, Octavius sees—
A tiny figure, curled in on itself, infinitely small, drenched in red.
A boy no older than seven, dark curls matted to his forehead. Octavius idly thinks he could fit his wrist between his forefinger and his thumb and still have room to spare.
“Why?” The man–Jedediah's voice is soft. Accusatory.
Octavius cannot answer.
The child stirs. Eyes open—wide, dark, filled with something bottomless. His lips move. Octavius strains to hear, but the world roars to life around him—screams, the clash of metal, the hiss of fire eating flesh, men on men like animals—
The boy smiles. Already yellowing, crooked and out of place.
His own smile.
His own face, looking back at him, younger, innocent, pure.
Until now.
Jedediah steps closer, pressing the child into his hands.
“Take him,” he says. “He’s yours.” I do not want him, goes unsaid.
Octavius does. His arms curl around the boy, holding him close. The child is cold but something wet seeps through his tunic, sticky and thick. The weight in his arms grows heavier. He looks down.
The child is gone.
Nothing but a knife remains, drenched in blood, its hilt fitted perfectly to his grip.
Jedediah’s hands are empty. His eyes are full of sorrow. He knows he is next.
—
The following night, Octavius stands at the edge of the bed, fingers balled into fists. Arguing against himself.
He should leave.
The thought had come to him earlier as he lingered in the doorway, watching the dim light brushing over the curve of Jedediah’s back, the slow rise and fall of his breathing.
He didn't know what he was more afraid of– being hurt by Jedediah or hurting him. Both seemed idiotic but he could not seem to convince himself they were. There was one thing he knew for certain though.
Jedediah, Octavius thought, was to spend the nights far away from him. It was best for him.
It would be easy—just turn, walk out, find some flimsy excuse to sleep elsewhere. He could say he needed air. He could say he wasn’t tired. He could say nothing at all.
But then Jedediah shifted, and his voice too loud for whatever time it was cut through the silence.
"We gotta talk.”
For a terrible second, his blood ran cold.
There was a shuffling of sheets before Jedediah understood he would not get a reply.
“You ain't sleepin' right."
Octavius didn’t answer. If he moved carefully enough, deliberately enough, maybe Jedediah would let it go.
"I’m fine." A weak response. He could’ve done better.
"That ain’t what I asked."
Octavius exhaled slowly through his nose. He had never understood how Jedediah could sound so patient and so unyielding all at once.
"Go to sleep, Jedediah."
"Not 'til you tell me what’s wrong," he said, firm like he actually believed himself.
Of course. Because that would fix everything, wouldn't it ? Why can't you tell him Octavius ? Just spill it all out, lay himself open like a butchered beast, complete with both lungs, heart and spleen and pretend it was good meat. As if picking apart his mind would leave anything salvageable, as if it would do anything but confirm what he already knew.
He was weak.
He had been weak when he watched his men die, when he let his fears rot him from the inside out, when he let the ghosts of wars past pick his bones clean. His fears kept him well-fed, and in return, he fed them back. There was not a moment he did not feel, deep in his marrow, Antony’s hunger at Actium, the Gauls' at Sabis, the slow, gnawing starvation of every man who had ever stood between conquest and survival.
He could feel it now, that same hollow ache, tightening in his throat like a noose.
Jedediah was still looking at him. Still waiting.
He had nothing to give.
"Nothing is wrong." Another lie, another failure to make it convincing.
Jedediah pushed himself upright, the mattress shifting beneath his weight. He wasn’t touching Octavius, but he was close, close enough that his presence settled heavy against Octavius' skin.
"I hear you, y'know," Jedediah said, quieter now. "When you wake up and stop breathin’ all of a sudden. I hear you."
He put a hand over his. Octavius forced himself to stay still.
“I dunno what it is that's doing this but it's scarin’ me.” You're scaring me is what Octavius understands.
"It’s nothing, truly," he insisted.
"Don’t do that," Jedediah scolded him. "Don’t act like I’m makin’ this up."
There was no accusation in his voice. No anger. Just quiet certainty.
"You don’t gotta tell me what it is," he pursued, "but at least tell me if I should be worried."
A simple request. But Octavius had never been good with simple things.
He swallowed. He could leave. The night was dark, and the world outside was vast, and he had never feared the solitude of an empty space the way he feared the presence of another person.
But the thought of leaving twisted something in his chest.
Jedediah let out a slow breath, then scrubbed a hand down his face. "Damn it, Octavius."
For a moment, it seemed like he might push again. But then he sighed and laid back down, rolling onto his side.
"Fine," he muttered. "Go ahead. Be stubborn all you want."
The words settled deep in Octavius’ ribs, in that hollow space he never knew how to fill.
Octavius got into bed.
He turned away from Jedediah, staring at the wall. That was the last thing he saw before–
—
Firelight. The glint of metal. The scent of burning flesh, thick enough to choke on.
Octavius stood in front of a field—no, a massacre. Screaming for once. Long gone was the usual quiet. His men moved like shadows through the wreckage, blades flashing, bodies dropping, screams echoing between them. He should be moving, should be fighting, but his feet were rooted in the mud. This was not simply exhaustion.
Something was wrong.
The battle was won, the enemy broken. A long time ago, in a life that was no longer his, he would have been proud. So why was his chest tight with dread ?
He turned his head and saw—
Jedediah.
Not in the flickering warmth of their shared bed. Away from the quiet safety of the present. Here. His boots sinking into the same bloodied ground, his face open with shock, with horror, with recognition.
And Octavius—
Octavius was holding a dagger.
He didn't remember raising it. Didn't remember gripping it so tight his tendons screamed. But it was there in his hand, heavy and solid, dripping red.
Jedediah's lips parted.
"Octavius."
The name sent ice through his veins. It wasn't an accusation. He seemed confused.
Like he didn't understand.
Like he thought this was a mistake.
Octavius' breath hitched. His grip trembled. He needed to explain—he needed to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come. And when he tried to step forward, the mud swallowed him, dragged him down, down, down—
The world snapped to black.
Then hands—real hands—shaking him roughly. He needed to get them off. A voice, urgent, called him back.
“Octavius—wake up, wake up, please–”
His body reacted before he did.
A snarl tore from his throat, his muscles coiling like a spring. His fingers lashed out and latched—around a wrist, an arm, whatever piece of meat he could find.
Jedediah choked.
Reality cracked open in an instant. The warm, dim light of their bedroom. The sheets twisted beneath them. The sound—God, the sound—of Jedediah struggling to breathe.
Octavius wrenched away like he'd been burned.
He scrambled back, hitting the headboard hard, his breath shattering apart. His hands—his hands were still clenched, his pulse thundering in his skull. His stomach twisted as Jedediah coughed, rubbing his throat, his throat, the place Octavius' hands had been, blooming red and blue before his eyes.
"Jedediah," he rasped. His voice was ruined, barely more than a whisper. " ‘Diah, love– I-I…"
Jedediah sat up, still catching his breath. His eyes weren't angry. They were worried.
This was worse.
Octavius felt it then, the second wave of despair crashing over him like a tide.
He had proof now. Proof that he was not a man meant for gentle things. Proof that the violence in him had not died on some distant battlefield. War had followed him home. And now—
Now it had tainted Jedediah too.
His chest locked up, something clawing at his throat. His fingers twitched like they were still wrapped around something solid, still holding, still hurting.
Before Jedediah could say a word, Octavius was already moving.
He stumbled out of bed, his limbs unsteady, his mind screaming at him to go, go, go. The walls felt too close, the air too thick. He had to run.
And so he did.
—
Octavius’ hands had steadied, but his breathing had not. He had escaped to the garden in hopes of calming down but all he could think about was how obvious a target this placement made him. He felt raw, peeled back, like something inside him had been cut open and left to fester. Weak. Vulnerable.
Jedediah would wake soon. He would come looking. He always did.
Octavius did not know if he wanted to be found.
The shame was unbearable. He had hurt him. Not in a dream, not in a memory—here. In the present. The thing he had feared most had come to pass, and the proof of it lay on Jedediah’s skin, blooming dark beneath its surface.
There was no coming back from that.
His hands trembled in his lap, fingers curling, uncurling, as if they might find something to hold onto. Nothing was there. Just his own calloused skin, rough and worn, lined with old scars from a life he no longer lived.
He turned them over, inspecting them in the dim light. These were not the hands of a gentle man.
What business did they have offering tenderness now ?
His chest clenched. He wanted—how he wanted—to be the kind of man Jedediah deserved. Soft-spoken, easy-going, a man whose touch did not make others flinch. But could you give back something you never had ? Could you create kindness out of nothing ? Could you forge tenderness from hands that had only ever known violence ?
And would it even do any good to try, if he was never meant to have love ?
A sharp inhale. His throat burned. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, willing himself to calm down. But the weight in his chest only grew heavier, thick and suffocating, pressing him down, down—
And then, footsteps. Again. That horrible tight feeling in his chest, again.
They grew closer. Slow. Cautious.
Not a hunter's steps.
Not an enemy's approach.
Octavius kept his eyes shut. He did not move when the footsteps stopped beside him. Did not dare look up when Jedediah crouched down in front of him, close enough that the warmth of him seeped into the cold air.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
It was Jedediah who broke the silence.
“Octavius.” Not a question.
Jed crouched beside him, voice low and careful. “You ran off real quick,” he said. “Figured you’d be out here.”
Octavius’ breath stuttered. He forced his hands into fists in his lap.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
Octavius squeezed his eyes shut. Jed frowned, reaching for him, but Octavius flinched back.
And that, more than anything, made Jed's expression tighten.
"Octavius," he repeated and oh— how he hated that name. Unfit for an emperor, too big for a man. Jedediah reached out, touching his shoulder. “You hurtin’?”
Octavius let out a short, bitter laugh. “A strange question to ask. Don't you already know the answer ?”
Jed sighed, settling down fully beside him. “I’m not talking about me.”
Octavius swallowed. Guilt pooled copper-like in his mouth. “You should be.”
Jed was quiet for a long moment. Then—“I know you didn’t mean it.”
“That does not change that it happened.”
“No,” Jed agreed. “But it changes what happens next.”
Octavius turned to look at him then. “And what happens next?”
“That depends on you.”
A flicker of frustration lit in his chest. “Do not put this much trust on me, Jedediah.”
"Why not," came his reply. It was infuriating as it was expected.
“I don’t—” His voice broke. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Jed exhaled, brushing his thumb over Octavius’ wrist. “You won’t.”
“I already have.”
“You scared me,” he admitted, quiet. “But you also stopped. You didn’t mean to, and you stopped.” He lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Octavius. “You think that don’t count for anything?”
Octavius swallowed hard. “It doesn’t erase it.”
“No,” Jed agreed. “But it means you’re still trying.” He squeezed Octavius’ hands gently. “And I ain’t going anywhere.”
You should, you really should is what Octavius thought.
“You say I stopped myself tonight. That I pulled away. But if I had been half-asleep, if I had woken up with a blade in my hands instead of empty air—”
"It doesn’t matter," Jedediah cut him off. "We'll find a way to make it easier. A solution. There must be one."
“You don’t understand,” he said, voice hoarse. “You weren’t there.”
“Then tell me.”
Octavius looked away. He did not wish to say it aloud, to give voice to the thing that haunted him most. But Jedediah waited, patient and steady, and Octavius had never known how to deny him for long.
He told him everything.
The torn armor, the running, the arrows cutting through the empty red sky. The betrayal, the trust, the false loyalties. The dagger in his hand, in his side, through his back, in a child's hands, shining with something fierce. The unshakable fear.
He hated himself for thinking it, but there was no denying it. Every moment he had spent with Jedediah had felt like a countdown. The closer they got, the more certain he was that he was bound to break him.
And what the hell was Jedediah still doing here ?
Standing there, looking at him with those eyes—full of care, concern, and patience. It made Octavius want to scream. He didn’t deserve it. Not after everything he’d done, everything he had been.
His anger slowly drained, leaving him hollow. That deep, gnawing fear, the one that had plagued him for so long, came back, heavier than before. He took a heavy breath.
“Do you understand now ? I cannot give you what you want. These hands have been ruined for everything sweet.” His voice came out broken, and for the first time in ages, he didn’t even care if Jedediah heard them. He dug his fingernails hard into his palm, hoping to draw blood. "They will ruin you too."
Jed held his gaze. Then, carefully, he took Octavius' hands in his own. Lifted them to his lips.
A kiss to the knuckles. The fingers. The wrist.
Octavius trembled.
Jed’s hands were rough in their own way, calloused from work, but they were steady. Grounding. He didn’t let go.
Jedediah kissed each knuckle, slow and deliberate, before pressing another to the center of his palm. “You won't. I ain't that fragile. And I know you ain’t some kinda monster," he said against his skin.
“You do not know that.” He turned away, eyes burning. “You do not know me. Not the parts that matter.”
“I know you love me.”
Perhaps that was the worst part. He loved Jedediah more than was possible. Venus had not put a limit on how much his heart could give. Octavius could not go away, even when it was the best thing to do for the both of them.
If he could not convince himself, then he would try with Jedediah.
“That isn’t what this is about,” he countered. “I have spent years covered in blood. I have bathed in it, worn it as a second skin. You do not touch something for so long and remain untouched yourself. You ought to stay away. I cannot offer you peace when it is what you deserve.”
"Can't I just deserve you ?"
Something cracked in Octavius’ chest as Jedediah went on with newfound spirit.
"I don't know how long you spent in battle. Could’ve been months. Could’ve been years. Don’t matter. What matters is the years we got left—and I bet they’ll be just as many. I ain't spending a second of those doubting you. And maybe that'll be enough for you to get away from it, I guess as far as possible or as far as you can get. I’ll help you if you let me, if I can do anything at all. It’s prolly still gon’ be there and I don't promise it'll fade away but I do promise we'll figure it out. I'll give it my best. For you, 'Tavius I swear I will.
'Cause I've spent time with you myself and this ain't what's gonna make me scared of you."
Jedediah was still watching him, waiting for something Octavius couldn’t give. There was no fear in his eyes, no pity—just certainty. That was what Octavius couldn’t understand.
He had seen faith crack under the weight of reality. Legionnaires who whispered prayers before battle and cursed the gods in their dying breaths. Officers who vowed never to let a man die under their command, only to walk fields of corpses they had ordered forward. Belief was fragile. It could not be trusted.
And yet, Jedediah still believed in him. Not as a soldier, not as a man bloodied by war, but as something beyond all of it.
If there was anything left of him that was worth saving, it had to be in that belief.
Maybe he would never be free of the war. Maybe the past would always sink its claws into him. Maybe he would never be able to trust he could have this.
But Jedediah was here. And Jedediah believed in him.
And Octavius tired as he was, wanted to believe him too.
So, slowly, hesitantly, he lifted a shaking hand and pressed it to Jed’s cheek. He nuzzled into it without a second thought. He let himself believe—because to do anything else would mean losing him.
His fingers curled against Jed’s cheek, not just touching—holding. He clung to it almost, hands bloodied, breath shaking. A soldier at the altar. Praying not for forgiveness, not for absolution but for the right to be human.
And truly, what a lovely, lovely sight.