you guys were really all on the same wavelength, huh? Here’s something short for this AU!
The blood splattered across the dust of the ring, the blood soaking into the soil and glistening in the blazing sunlight, all of it seemed so far away and inconsequential as if part of a painting compared to the blood Rhys sees when he’s this close to Jack.
Up in his booth with his father, surrounded by perfumed women, goblets of wine, and plates of fine olives and cheeses he smells none of what he can smell now—the metallic scent of victory splashed across Jack’s chest and splattered across his face. He can see, now, some is even matted into his hair, making it stick up like the comb of some strange bird from far across the sea.
There’s so much blood coating Jack’s body, soaking the cloth and staining the metal of his armor, that it takes Rhys a couple of moments to recognize the gaping wound slashed into Jack’s shoulder. The gladiator only watches him back, not making a move to touch it, and Rhys wonders if he even knows its there.
“You…you’re bleeding…” Rhys’ long, pale fingers curl up suddenly, like strips of paper in the fire just before they touch Jack’s wound. The gladiator grunts softly, shifting in his seat as one rough hand claps against his shoulder. He winces as the wound smarts, his calloused palm coming away covered in the aging blood of his enemies and the fresh fount dribbling from the cut.
“…I’ve had worse…” Jack says after a moment, wiping his palm against the cloth of the tunic covering his lap as he grabs an earthenware jug full of fresh water. Rhys swallows, eyes following the smear of red across the scratchy linen, imagining his own skin tainted with such coarse intimacy. His fingers flex out once more, carefully resting on Jack’s bicep, just below the wound. He can feel the way Jack’s muscles tense underneath his touch, more blood bubbling from the cut in his skin.
“May I?” He asked, a trickle of blood dripping down Jack’s shoulder to pool against where Rhys’ fingers press against his arm. The gladiator pulls the lip of the jug away from his mouth, surprised.
“May you….what, exactly?” Jack eyes Rhys’ hand with—not something the heir would describe as suspicion. Maybe a glint of fear that Jack almost never let slip past, not even while in the coliseum, fighting for his life.
“I want to cleanse your wound.” Rhys lifted his hand slightly from the other man’s arm, trembling slightly at the blood that dripped from his fingers. He shifted his eyes to meet with Jack’s, a small smile crawling over his lips. “May I?”
Rhys saw the struggle from beyond Jack’s eyes, as even this most profane, most violent of men toyed with the taboo of allowing an heir blessed by the power of the gods to lower himself so, even as he was ordered to. He saw the way Jack inevitably relented, giving into Rhys’ will and his own need to have those royal hands treating his injury with such care and interest.
ugh 