Fic: Told You So
Title: Told You So
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~590
Summary: Marcus samples the local brew. Extensively.
written for the ninth_eagle Fanmedia Challenge, based on the image of the beer tap and a fic idea by meretricula, without whom I am nothing.
It's a feast day, pigs and lambs spitted over bonfires, smoke rising into the air with the sound of music and singing. Marcus hovers at the periphery of the celebration, but cups of home-brewed are pushed into his hands and, because these are his neighbours now and acceptance breeds acceptance, he takes everything he's offered. The drinks taste like honey and meadowsweet, light as spring and golden as summer.
"Careful with that," Esca says, when he notices. "It's stronger than you think."
"Thanks," says Marcus, drily. It's well-known in Rome that native tribes run mad when given the Roman wines that Marcus has been drinking since he was a boy. "I think I can handle this."
"There's no water in this, you know," Esca says. He brandishes his own up. "We don't hold with mixing our drinks."
Marcus drains the last swallow of slick, sweet beer and says, "Esca, don't tell a Roman how to hold his drink."
"Please yourself," Esca says, with that knowing smile of his that Marcus really, really hates. He disappears into the swirling, feasting crowds, and Marcus - Marcus calls for another beaker.
Later - much later - Esca appears on the bench at his side. Esca's cheeks are flushed and his eyes bright with concern, and he plucks Marcus's cup from his hands. "How many is this?"
"'S good," Marcus says, watching Esca drain the dregs of the cup. When he's done he tosses it away for the women to clear away come morning. Marcus follows the cup's arc without meaning to, leaning left until Esca steadies him with a hand against his neck.
Esca huffs out a shallow breath of laughter, his hand warm and the calloused palm sliding up roughly until it rests against Marcus's cheek. Marcus's head rolls into Esca's touch on the strangely weak stem of his neck. Esca laughs again, amused, and with a gentle shove lolls Marcus's head the other way.
"Stop it," Marcus says, or thinks he says.
"What?" says Esca, still smiling. Bringing up his other hand, he holds Marcus's head still. Around them the world slips one way, then the other, but Esca remains a fixed point and so Marcus focuses on him.
"Mmph," Marcus says, his eyelids heavy. "You."
"Me," Esca says.
Something about this conversation, monosyllabic as it is, strikes Marcus as much too complicated for his present condition. Instead of pursuing it further he pitches forward, unchecked by Esca's lenient hands until his forehead comes to rest against the comfortable homespun of Esca's shoulder. Esca smells like cooking-smoke and herbs, good earthy smells to counter the sweetness of the lingering beer taste.
Esca's hand slips around to cup the curve of Marcus's skull. "You won't remember this in the morning," he says, "but I told you so."
-
Marcus wakes up to the taste of straw. Upon investigation, this appears to be because he has straw in his mouth. When he reaches up to remove the straw his hand misses his mouth entirely, and this is the first indication that he isn't okay. When he tries to rise, head and stomach protest in unison and he abandons the effort.
A soft rustling next to him and a quiet voice: "Marcus?"
Esca. "Don't tell me," Marcus says, voice thick. He paws again and manages to extract the straw, leaving behind just the sickly-sweet aftertaste of the beer, which isn't an improvement.
"What?" Esca asks. Marcus opens his eyes and finds Esca watching him with completely undisguised amusement.
"That you told me so," says Marcus, grimly.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~590
Summary: Marcus samples the local brew. Extensively.
written for the ninth_eagle Fanmedia Challenge, based on the image of the beer tap and a fic idea by meretricula, without whom I am nothing.
It's a feast day, pigs and lambs spitted over bonfires, smoke rising into the air with the sound of music and singing. Marcus hovers at the periphery of the celebration, but cups of home-brewed are pushed into his hands and, because these are his neighbours now and acceptance breeds acceptance, he takes everything he's offered. The drinks taste like honey and meadowsweet, light as spring and golden as summer.
"Careful with that," Esca says, when he notices. "It's stronger than you think."
"Thanks," says Marcus, drily. It's well-known in Rome that native tribes run mad when given the Roman wines that Marcus has been drinking since he was a boy. "I think I can handle this."
"There's no water in this, you know," Esca says. He brandishes his own up. "We don't hold with mixing our drinks."
Marcus drains the last swallow of slick, sweet beer and says, "Esca, don't tell a Roman how to hold his drink."
"Please yourself," Esca says, with that knowing smile of his that Marcus really, really hates. He disappears into the swirling, feasting crowds, and Marcus - Marcus calls for another beaker.
Later - much later - Esca appears on the bench at his side. Esca's cheeks are flushed and his eyes bright with concern, and he plucks Marcus's cup from his hands. "How many is this?"
"'S good," Marcus says, watching Esca drain the dregs of the cup. When he's done he tosses it away for the women to clear away come morning. Marcus follows the cup's arc without meaning to, leaning left until Esca steadies him with a hand against his neck.
Esca huffs out a shallow breath of laughter, his hand warm and the calloused palm sliding up roughly until it rests against Marcus's cheek. Marcus's head rolls into Esca's touch on the strangely weak stem of his neck. Esca laughs again, amused, and with a gentle shove lolls Marcus's head the other way.
"Stop it," Marcus says, or thinks he says.
"What?" says Esca, still smiling. Bringing up his other hand, he holds Marcus's head still. Around them the world slips one way, then the other, but Esca remains a fixed point and so Marcus focuses on him.
"Mmph," Marcus says, his eyelids heavy. "You."
"Me," Esca says.
Something about this conversation, monosyllabic as it is, strikes Marcus as much too complicated for his present condition. Instead of pursuing it further he pitches forward, unchecked by Esca's lenient hands until his forehead comes to rest against the comfortable homespun of Esca's shoulder. Esca smells like cooking-smoke and herbs, good earthy smells to counter the sweetness of the lingering beer taste.
Esca's hand slips around to cup the curve of Marcus's skull. "You won't remember this in the morning," he says, "but I told you so."
-
Marcus wakes up to the taste of straw. Upon investigation, this appears to be because he has straw in his mouth. When he reaches up to remove the straw his hand misses his mouth entirely, and this is the first indication that he isn't okay. When he tries to rise, head and stomach protest in unison and he abandons the effort.
A soft rustling next to him and a quiet voice: "Marcus?"
Esca. "Don't tell me," Marcus says, voice thick. He paws again and manages to extract the straw, leaving behind just the sickly-sweet aftertaste of the beer, which isn't an improvement.
"What?" Esca asks. Marcus opens his eyes and finds Esca watching him with completely undisguised amusement.
"That you told me so," says Marcus, grimly.