Chapter Text
Geta was young when it happened, though he cannot now remember the age. Fourteen perhaps?
He was in the baths. It was the middle of the day. The bathing complex at the palace was private but bathing was always a social occasion. Their father invited many people to talk politics and to do business. Thus in the bath with Geta that day were senators and noblemen and generals and their father's friends.
The baths were not a kind place to Geta at that age. He was still learning how to be, how to interact with others, what to say to them. Geta was an heir to the throne, he was meant to be an authority, but he did not at all feel like one.
And the bath was full of men, most of them surrounding his father, but some near Geta, and all of them naked. Old and worn or young and muscular; and this last group was the hardest, for Geta was not yet used to his body, had not yet grown into it.
All it took sometimes was the glimpse of water running across a General's haired chest, or a passing glance from dark, pretty eyes and Geta would be hard under the water, shamefully so, and he would flush hot and try to ignore it and wait wait wait until it went down again.
When Caracalla was there it could be more difficult still. Caracalla would be close, his arms and legs brushing against Geta's without meaning to, and then Geta's hardness would be worse and the flush stronger, and Geta would sulk morosely and move away from his brother until the danger had subsided.
But this day Geta was alone, thankfully. Caracalla had declined to bathe, had been drinking, sprawled on the bed, and had not gone. And so Geta had only the other bodies to contend with, and a million tiresome conversations, which were somehow much more tiresome for Geta's being alone.
But perhaps Geta wasn't as alone as he thought, because there then came the slap of bare feet across the floor and Caracalla entered the room.
He was undressed like everyone else but he seemed incongruous with the men around them. Caracalla's hair was a mess, his eyes red and bleary, his mouth pulled into an uncoordinated grin.
All eyes followed him, as they ought to when an Emperor's heir enters the room. But if those expectant faces imagined they were going to get more polite and tiresome conversations they were wrong.
Caracalla walked up to the edge of the bath. He was swaying slightly.
"You are all..." Caracalla declared loudly, a slurring audible in his words. He picked up his cock, stroked it once, twice. And Geta was hard, again, hard already, flushed and hard and ashamed. "You are all," declared Caracalla, "a bunch of fucks!" Then the hand upon his cock stopped moving and instead directed that cock down towards the water and Caracalla began to urinate straight into the bath, the splashing noise of it unmistakable.
A gasp of disgust ran through the room. Several of the men closest to the commotion backed away, bumping into others, and then people started climbing out of the water.
Geta didn't. Geta couldn't. He was hard, he was hard. He was so hard. He watched his brother piss in that bath, in defiance of all those people, in defiance of everything their father cultivated, and Geta didn't do anything to stop it.
Their father did, however. He roared and rose from the bath with a cacophonous rush of water, storming across the room to take up Caracalla by the arm.
Caracalla yelped, stumbling, his cock still pissing until it suddenly wasn't any more and he was yanked away.
"You," snarled their father, "with me," and he marched from the room, dragging Caracalla behind him.
Geta was out of the water without thinking, no longer caring what anyone thought of him, certainly no longer hard.
"Wait!" Geta shouted. "Father!" He rushed after them, nearly slipping in his haste, frantically following Caracalla's footsteps, Caracalla's wails, Caracalla's little form trailing after their father until the three of them ended up in their father's bedroom.
Geta closed upon them and grabbed his father's still-wet hand. "Wait," pleaded Geta. "Wait, wait. You can punish me, not him. He is drunk. He doesn't know what he..."
"No!" Their father turned, spittle flying from him. His face was darker than Geta had ever seen it. Geta was pushed away, stumbling to the ground. "He knows what he is," their father said. Water was dripping from him to the floor. "He knows what he has done."
Caracalla wailed. And Caracalla was beaten. And Geta's cheeks were as wet as the puddle of bathwater beneath him.
When it was over Geta took a snivelling Caracalla back to the room they shared and pulled him down into the bed, held him close.
"Why did you do it?" Geta asked, unable to understand. "You knew what his response would be."
Caracalla sniffled louder.
"Filthy. Filthy. Filthy." Their father's words were still ringing in Geta's mind. "Disgusting beast!"
But things moved on, as they always did. The beating was consigned to the past with all the others. Caracalla wasn't ever again allowed to enter the baths when their father's friends and politicians were there; it was probably for the best.
The twins had more compelling things to think about, or Geta did at least. He spent the next week in something of a daze. The beating was pushed to the back of his mind but the circumstances of it were not.
There in the baths Geta had watched as Caracalla had stroked his cock. Just twice, but it had been enough. Caracalla had not been hard but Geta had been. Geta had been so hard and guilty and ashamed.
Filthy. Disgusting beast.
Caracalla's body had taken on a new and interesting position in Geta's mind after that. Perhaps something similar was taking root in Caracalla's thoughts, because a week later, when they lay in bed that night as usual, Geta said, "Take off your clothes." And Caracalla did.
"Take off yours too," Caracalla countered, and so Geta did as well.
They had seen each other naked so many times before, were so familiar with each other's bodies, but this time was different. This time it felt as if there was a significance to it. Geta was hard, of course he was, he wouldn't have dared to make his initial demand otherwise, and Caracalla was too. Much harder than anything Geta had seen at the baths, flushed and red and urgent-looking.
"I want to touch it," said Geta, breathless.
Caracalla looked at him. "Yes."
"Can I?" Geta asked.
"Yes."
Caracalla curled in on himself when it happened, both of his hands clutching at Geta's wrist, not stopping or guiding, just holding as Geta felt him.
He was so hot against Geta's palm.
And then Caracalla was touching Geta as well, his fingers tight, greedy. Geta let out a yelp.
Why had they not done this before?
Why had they not done this before?
Caracalla's body had been there every night. In Geta's arms. At Geta's side. The soft brush of an arm in sleep making Geta suddenly erect. Why had Geta waited for the feeling to go away again? Why had Geta done nothing about it?
But it did not matter. They had started now. That was important. Caracalla was making "Ah, Ah, Ah," noises as Geta stroked him, and Caracalla's cheeks were pink, his lips pinker still.
It was easy enough to kiss those lips and they opened wider to pant into Geta's mouth.
There were footsteps suddenly, two pairs, coming into the room. A gasp. Geta disentangled himself from his brother but it was too late.
Two slaves with eyes so wide. Then both slaves turned and ran and everything happened in a blur.
Caracalla's face was pale, his expression confused. "Brother?" he asked.
Geta was out of bed and pulling on his sleeping clothes. "Dress yourself," he hissed at Caracalla. "I will stop them. I will see them execu..."
But it did not matter what Geta would see them do because Geta's father was in the room and his face was black as thunder.
Caracalla was still climbing out of bed, still struggling to dress himself.
Geta stepped up to block their father from going further, met his gaze. "It was me." Geta held himself tall. His heart was a fluttering bird in his chest. "It was my fault. I persuaded him into it."
Their father's lips pulled back from his teeth.
"You know he doesn't understand things," said Geta.
The slap had Geta sprawling to the floor.
"Of all the abuses I have to put up with from you two," said their father, his voice quiet, "this is the worst."
The kick had Geta retching, but the cry from Caracalla was worse.
"Send him away," said Geta when he had enough breath to form the words. "This is my punishment." Geta retched again. "He doesn't need to see it."
"How dare you tell me..." A toe pushed Geta onto his back until those angry eyes met his. "...how I should teach my own son."
"Please," said Geta in the space before the kick returned.
They didn't touch each other in a sexual context after that. Of course they didn't. Why would they when the stakes were so high?
And anyway, they were given separate rooms immediately and soon there were concubines to sleep with, many and approved, male or female, whatever either brother wanted.
Geta wanted women for the most part, occasionally men. And he grew and he learned.
Even when their father died and Geta and Caracalla became Emperors themselves they never sought to renew that early sexual encounter. The memory of it was too deep and there was plenty to amuse themselves with otherwise.
And yet, especially in the early days, for all the bodies put on display for them, sometimes all Geta wanted was his own hand, his youthful yearning too much to wait for someone to come and do the business for him.
When Geta touched himself in this way he would think sometimes of a drunken face stretched into a defiant grin and the sound of urine hitting the water in a bath full of people.
Filthy. Disgusting beast.
"Why did you do it?" Geta had asked. "You knew what his response would be."
Caracalla had looked up at Geta with red-rimmed eyes.
"Because he deserves it," Caracalla had said simply. "Because I hate him."