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Geta's brother is masturbating again; Geta can see it out of the corner of his eye.
Caracalla does this. Even here, now, in front of the crowds in the Colosseum. Caracalla has no shame; no willingness, it seems, to stop himself.
The others might not notice: those around them. Caracalla is discreet; Geta has made sure that he is. Many hours of stern warnings to his brother, saying, "Yes you can, but it is best that they do not see."
Caracalla has looked at him, confused, many times, not understanding. But why should he understand? He, inveterate pleasure-seeker. Caracalla does not realise that some things should not be shared. He does not realise that self-pleasure is not for the world to watch.
And why not? Who would tell him no? Who would dare raise a voice to their Emperor and say, "It is not right, your Majesty."
No-one but Geta. "It is not right, brother. It is not right for the world to see you like this. It is not right, and if you cannot refrain, then at least try to be subtle."
Years of Geta's exasperation have taught Caracalla this subtlety at least. Perhaps the others in the box do not realise what Caracalla is doing; the crowd at large certainly do not.
But Geta knows. Geta can see it. His brother's hand has slipped between his brother's robes; his elbow shifts, slightly, rhythmically. Caracalla never wears underwear; Geta knows this.
There is a tint to his brother's cheeks that is not all make-up.
In some circumstances Geta will not allow it at all. At the Colosseum, Geta will allow it. In front of slaves and servants, Geta will allow it. In front of Geta alone, Geta will allow it.
In front of the Senate, Geta will not.
Caracalla does not understand this either. Geta can see his disappointment, his frustration. The desire of Geta's needy brother to touch himself at all times, to keep himself aroused, flushed, trembling on the verge of climax: Caracalla's desire for stimulation and pleasure in all forms.
But, again, years of training have seen Caracalla come to heel. In most instances all it takes is a look from Geta to remind him "do not," and Caracalla is straightening in his seat and putting his hands politely on the arms of his throne, there to play restlessly with the rings on his fingers.
Sometimes, however, even here in the Senate Caracalla forgets. Sometimes Geta will notice out of the corner of his eye, a hand go creeping down to Caracalla's lap, and Geta will lean over to him, will hiss, "Stop," and now Caracalla is remembering, meeting Geta's eye and straightening again, obedient.
Caracalla's proclivity started when they were young. They have both of them been raised on this habit of his, grown with it.
Geta does not know which of them was the first to grow hard; he does not know who passed this milestone of puberty first. They have shared so much of their life together, but he cannot be certain that they have shared everything.
Certainly the first time Geta's cock had grown erect, properly hard, his brother hadn't been there. Geta had been in the baths, excited, ashamed, bodies all around him, and his erection had gone quickly, subsiding unnoticed under the water.
After that there had been other times when erections had come upon Geta, the dangers of inhabiting a pubescent body, and Geta had let them pass, each one, had covered himself up with his robes in the hope that no-one would notice.
Perhaps Caracalla's first erections had been the same: untroubled, unnoticed. Or perhaps the first one they had witnessed together truly had been Caracalla's first time.
"It feels strange," Caracalla had said.
They had been sharing a bed. Caracalla had pulled down the blankets and had lifted his tunic and he had been hard beneath it in a way that Geta had never seen on anyone before: anyone besides himself.
"I..." Caracalla had said. He had reached down, had run a finger along the red length of himself to feel it. Geta remembers the way that Caracalla's face had scrunched.
Back in the past, Geta hadn't breathed; hadn't dared.
"What does it feel like?" he had asked his brother.
Caracalla's eyes had shone as they flicked back up to him.
"Good," Caracalla had said. "It feels good."
After that they had grown into men. Concubines had soon been available, had soon been expected. Geta had taken to them easily, simply. He had enjoyed falling into the arms of another, of having a soft body to work his pleasure upon.
Geta's use of his own body had fallen away quickly as a result. Yes, he too had masturbated in his youth; how can one not, when faced with that earnest, pubescent desire? But with concubines Geta no longer had any need. Why do the hard work himself when there was always a willing body but a command away?
Caracalla had not been the same. He had taken concubines, yes, but the act of masturbation had never left him. It was as if he saw them as two separate things: the pleasure of one not enough to sate the desire for the other.
Their father hadn't liked it, had cuffed his son around the ears whenever he had found Caracalla touching himself. Caracalla had quickly learned not to do it in their father's presence.
But it seems that Caracalla's desire for the act had not lessened. Geta was no such tyrant: did not wish for his brother to stop doing what his brother enjoyed. In Geta's presence it had always been permissible, and so in Geta's presence it had always been practiced.
Once their father had died and they had become Emperors, Caracalla's touching of himself had only blossomed, growing from an occasional thing into an almost constant occurrence.
Here, now, Geta and Caracalla lie on their couches in their dining room, taking a meal together.
One of Caracalla's hands is used to feed himself. The other is beneath his tunic, working hard.
There is no reason to be subtle here, to be quiet about it with just the two of them.
Caracalla pushes stuffed dates between his lips and then pauses to breathe heavily, to rock his hips a little.
His tunic is rucked up, his hand and cock easy for all to see.
Geta eats bread and watches him: Caracalla's face is red as he swallows another date and licks its stickiness from his fingers.
Here before the Senate meeting, as they wait in their private rooms, their stately entrance only moments away, Geta can see that his usual warnings are not being observed.
Caracalla is dressed in all finery, his clothes, his hair, his make-up, but he is fidgety, restless. He takes the rings off of his fingers and then puts them on again, picks up armlets, tries them on then removes them.
"You cannot," Geta is telling him. "You must remember. This is important. There will be ambassadors from the provinces there."
"Yes," says Caracalla, opening a casket and picking out earrings.
"I mean it," says Geta. "There are times when touching yourself is not appropriate. There will be uproar."
Caracalla glances at him. Puts down an earring, picks up another. Caracalla holds it up, inspects it. "I forget though."
Geta sighs.
There are times like this when Geta has a failsafe; for use when he cannot be certain that his brother will obey, when the stakes are high.
Geta looks at him. "Put that down," he tells Caracalla. "Come here."
Caracalla does put the earrings down. He looks to his brother curiously.
Geta beckons him over with a hand. "Come here," says Geta again. "Lift your tunic."
Caracalla does as he is told, smiling now. They have done this before; he knows the form of it.
When Geta takes his brother in hand, Caracalla pants and clutches his fingers in Geta's robes so hard that Geta has to stop and make him remove them.
"You will crease it," says Geta.
It had been on their third occasion that Geta had touched his brother's erection for the first time.
Three times had they, youthful they, lain in this bed together and Geta had watched as Caracalla had revealed an erection, hard, pink, and had stroked it.
On the first time, Caracalla had reached his end quickly. On the second time, he had come to it more slowly. On the third time, this time, Geta had helped him.
Geta hadn't intended to; had had no thoughts of it beforehand. But Caracalla had been there and his hand had been working, quickly now, and he had been panting open-mouthed into the pillow.
"Let me," Geta had said.
A strangled moan had emerged from Caracalla's lips. But he had paused the movement of his hands and had panted harder into the pillow, and finally he had looked up.
Geta was already reaching for him. "Let me help," Geta had said. "Let me feel."
The silk of the pillow had left a red crease along Caracalla's cheek. He had swallowed and had panted, had watched Geta's hand.
Hot, was how Geta's brother had felt, and hard, this first ever cock which Geta had held that was not his own. Caracalla's body had jumped at the touch, his hands convulsing in the bedsheets, his legs twisting against the mattress.
Geta had watched him, had licked his own lips, had felt that cock beneath his fingers.
Caracalla still writhes when Geta touches him, here, now, waiting for their meeting with the Senate and the ambassadors.
When Caracalla touches himself in the presence of others he can be subtle: you would barely know what he is feeling, might not even be able to tell when he reaches his end if you are not his brother.
When Caracalla is with Geta alone, even then, his pleasure when he is touching himself seems more controlled, more muted. The most he will reach is a roll of the hips, a soft whimpering of the mouth.
But when Geta has his hand on Caracalla's cock, holding up Caracalla's tunic to work his brother fast, Caracalla convulses. His breath comes out hard. "Please," he pants at Geta. "Please please."
Geta shushes him. "You must be quiet. There are politicians all over the Palace."
"Yes," agrees Caracalla, nodding, obedient. He swallows. His hands have nothing to grasp on since Geta has forbidden him to touch Geta's robes, and so Caracalla's fingers twist together, contorting, rings clinking. He whines, loudly.
"Shh," hisses Geta. "Shh." He strokes him quickly, feels Caracalla's hips jumping.
"Brother, brother, brother," is the litany that now falls from Caracalla's lips. It is even more damning than the whines, but at least it means that Geta's brother is close to his end.
"Shh," hisses Geta again. "Cover your cock. You're close. Don't make a mess."
Caracalla hurries to do as he's told, his hands shaking as he cups them over the head of his cock, his rings clinking again. He shouts loudly as he ejaculates, surprised, gasping.
"Shh," Geta hisses in his ear, leaning closer. "Shh shh shh. Quiet."
Caracalla quiets himself, or attempts to, giving out now only gasps, only gulps. His chest is heaving.
Geta steps away, washes his hands in a bowl of rosewater, dries them.
"Wash your hands," Geta tells his brother. "They're a mess."
At the Colosseum Geta can tell that his brother is close from the way that Caracalla's free hand is shivering upon the arm of his throne.
Caracalla's eyes are bright as he watches the scenes down below. A red-tinted lip is sucked into his mouth.
Geta cannot concentrate on the arena. He looks down, sees that there are more bloodstains on the ground than there were before, but he must look back up, must glance across at the throne next to him.
Caracalla's armlet is beginning to tap rhythmically against the arm of his throne. Geta sees Caracalla notice it, sees Caracalla look frustrated and huddle in on himself further so that the noise stops.
A roar rises from the crowd. A glance down confirms more bloodstains below.
Caracalla's free hand covers his mouth: to the unaware he is just a concerned observer, surprised by the thrills below. He curls back further into his throne. The tendons at his elbow are tense, straining.
The roar of the crowd is growing again. Geta stands up from where he sits and steps up to the balcony, looking down. Let all eyes follow him and not whatever it is his brother might be doing.
One of the prisoners below is decapitated as Geta watches. It is neat, swift: a good piece of work. Geta claps. When he turns back to his brother, Caracalla is sprawled, boneless now, breathing hard.
Geta gives his brother a smile in acknowledgement, in praise. You have not drawn attention to yourself. Well done.
Caracalla smiles in return, his eyes vacant. Licks his lips.
On their fourth time, the fourth time that Geta had ever seen his brother masturbate, Geta had joined him in the act: Geta not touching Caracalla this time but instead touching himself.
Caracalla had been at it again, in their bed, panting into the pillow. He had done it more frequently than Geta, even back then, almost every night performing this thing when Geta had only ever touched himself the once, secretly, furtively, alone.
But this time Geta had watched and had grown hard; one of his unexpected erections suddenly upon him. They had used to arrive at random times, these fits of lust: one time in the gardens, one time in his sleep, one time at the temple.
There had been as yet no rhyme nor reason to his erections, and certainly no reason as to why one should have visited Geta here in their bed. Caracalla had touched himself here before, had he not? Geta should have been used to the sight by now, surely.
But there had been Caracalla panting, his hips rocking into his hand, and Geta had been suddenly hard, so hard, giddy with it.
It had felt like the simplest thing for Geta to touch himself then: to lift up his tunic and pull down his underwear and take himself in hand. It had felt right. Easy.
Caracalla hadn't noticed at first, his face had been pressed too heavily into the pillow, but Geta had been watching, had kept watching, had spotted the moment when Caracalla's realisation had finally occurred.
Hazily, Caracalla had glanced across briefly, not seeing, had continued to roll his hips, and then he had paused, had looked back up.
Geta's cock had been weeping, weeping already, had jumped in his fist when Caracalla had looked at him and had asked, voice thick, "Brother?"
"Yes," Geta had said, his voice unusually strained, hissing. "Yes." He had looked at his brother. "Don't stop."
But Caracalla hadn't the chance to to start rocking his hips again, for Caracalla's cock had pulsed out onto the bedsheets between them, suddenly, Caracalla panting like a man in the arena wounded half to death.
Here in the dining room the stuffed dates are forgotten. Caracalla is on his back and has his private parts now in both hands: his cock in one, his balls being rolled in another. His face is red, his chest heaving.
Geta finishes the plum he is eating, wipes his hands on a napkin.
They are alone. It is allowed. There are only so many times that Geta can watch his brother and ignore it. Only so many times that Geta can refrain from joining him.
Unlike Caracalla, Geta wears underwear. He lifts up his tunic and unties this underwear, removes it and tosses it away.
Caracalla must hear the noise for he turns onto his side on his couch. The hands on his private parts slow and then still. He looks to Geta's face, looks to his cock.
Geta is hard already when he touches himself. Of course he is. He has been hard for the whole meal. Geta lies on his side, smoothes his hand along his cock from base to tip and is gratified to see that Caracalla performs the same action on himself.
Caracalla is further along than Geta though. This small action has Caracalla closing his eyes, panting. Those eyes open once more, look at Geta, close again.
Geta waits until Caracalla's eyes open for longer, finally. Now Geta moves his hand on his cock again, firmer, faster. Caracalla watches him, copies, groans a groan that sounds like a sob.
"Yes," praises Geta. "Yes."
Caracalla's eyes have once more fluttered shut.
"Look at me," Geta says.
When the young Caracalla had come that time, suddenly, surprised at the sight of his brother's own self-pleasure, Caracalla hadn't done what he had done previously.
On the three previous occasions when he had masturbated in their bed and had reached his end, Caracalla had on those occasions wiped his hands on the bedsheets and had rolled over to sleep. But this time, this time, Caracalla had raised himself and had clambered hastily across the mattress to his brother.
Suddenly there had been sticky hands on Geta's tunic, on Geta's thigh, on Geta's hip. Shaking fingers had clasped slick and surprising around Geta's cock and Geta had made a noise like an animal in a trap.
"Yes, yes, yes," Caracalla had breathed, his voice unstable, pressing his mouth to Geta's collarbone, to his neck. "Yes Geta."
The panting had come upon Geta suddenly: he had not been able to catch his breath. Caracalla's hand on his cock had been slick, soft, trembling.
"Please," Geta had begged, and he had come furiously as his brother had mouthed at his pulse point.
In the dining room, in the present, Geta doesn't beg. He is too busy watching as his brother mirrors him, as his brother copies Geta's movements on his cock. Caracalla is writhing on his couch, panting and groaning almost as if Geta is touching him with his hands.
But there is no need to be silent here: no repercussions if they are heard. Geta lets his brother voice his distress and watches as Caracalla claws a hand at his own hip and ejaculates onto his own fingers, onto his rumpled robes, onto the couch and the stuffed dates upon the table. It doesn't matter.
Caraclla's breathing slows. Geta watches as he calms down. Caracalla's glassy eyes rove from the floor to the table to the ceiling, blinking rapidly.
Now Geta smoothes his hand along his cock, presses his thumb down firm in a line along the top of it, and thinks that he would one day like to taste those come-covered dates; one day taste them as he works himself to his own end.
Suddenly Caracalla is climbing off of his couch, drunkenly, unsteadily. His tunic is caught on his hip and doesn't fully fall back down, one haired thigh exposed as he manoeuvres around the table.
Geta's couch jolts as Caracalla sits down heavily upon it, then Caracalla puts a hot hand on Geta's hip, pushes until Geta is rolled onto his back.
Geta looks up at him; is met with a smirk in return.
Caracalla's hands are sticky when they land on Geta's private parts: one on his cock and one on his balls. They move with practiced ease, those hands, sliding slick, somehow still surprising after all these years: a flicker of a finger here and there that never ceases to have Geta's hips rising up from the couch no matter how many times they have done this before.
The noise Geta makes is desperate.
"Shh," Caracalla says, his mouth stretched wide, gloating. "Someone will hear."
Geta pants. "There is no-one to hear."
Caracalla lifts his hand, licks it wet, returns it to Geta's cock, slick fingers twisting over the head of it.
"Auhh," gasps Geta. "Yes."
"Beg for me," is Caracalla's reply.
Geta has no patience to refuse. "Yes," he agrees, his hips straining upwards.
The hand not on Geta's cock is moved up to Geta's mouth, a warm thumb placed upon his lips. "Beg, brother," Caracalla says, somehow not satisfied with the previous response.
"Please," tries Geta, his voice muffled against that thumb.
Caracalla lifts the hand from Geta's cock again, licks it again, twists his slick fingers over the head again.
"Beg more."
"Please, brother." Geta pants, opens his mouth and bites at that thumb. "Caracalla."
Caracalla's eyes on him are dark. "You will make a mess," Caracalla says.
"Yes," pants Geta.
It is the kiss that does it. Caracalla leans down and presses his lips to his brother's, and Geta comes hard, straining, to the taste of dates.
Many times Geta has seen his brother masturbate; many times has seen him come.
It is always indulgent. And often inconvenient. And always messy.
Geta wouldn't change it for the world.