Sarica. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
legislatory) wrote2022-06-05 03:27 pm
legislatory) wrote2022-06-05 03:27 pm
Entry tags:
fic.
title: Compensation
word count: ~1000
rating: Teen+
warnings: N/A
summary: 'You’ve changed,' Ulos tells him, staring into his open, unintimidated face with his dark, beady eyes. 'Timachus was a god and he couldn’t change you this way, what is this man?'
author's notes: Written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
genprompt_bingo's "Forgiveness" prompt.
__________
Ulos has agreed to meet with him at his villa, Sarica having discreetly directed Anakin somewhere else during the consultation. They’ve eaten lunch together while discussing the current, anti-war discourse in the Senate, Ulos having, less discreetly implied that it’s Sarica’s own fault, you’ve gone soft in old age, my friend, meaning – he doesn’t steer them through lust and greed and fear anymore, so they will steer him by other means instead. Old wisdom.
While Juila clears the table, Ulos throws his dirty, sandal-clad feet up onto the tabletop, resting them by his ankles on the edge and flexing his toes lazily, looking over at Sarica with that particular look he gets when he eyes any opportunity to backstab him and gain from it. Sarica sees it coming, from a mile away, and simply walks over to the nearest divan, sitting down and keeping his own feet firmly on the floor. They’ve discussed wine (Ulos knows a distributor in the West State who has just had an excellent harvest, he'll bring a case), entertainment (Ulos keeping his mouth shut mainly because all Sarica’s defenses were up, strategically a very bad timing, so they agreed on hiring the dancing troupe from Mergan that has toured the capital the past couple of days), but now the other man can’t be subdued any longer. Sarica can tell. He resigns himself to the inevitable, gesturing lightly with one hand in Ulos’ direction, indicating he’s free to speak.
So Ulos speaks.
“You haven’t shown him off at all since he arrived, Sarica,” he complains, loudly, his whole body speaking of predatory want and the envy that has always existed and grown between them, since they were both too young to grow their beards out. Sarica always at the front, Ulos always right behind. You’ve changed, Ulos tells him, staring into his open, unintimidated face with his dark, beady eyes. Timachus was a god and he couldn’t change you this way, what is this man?
Not who, but what.
“You must bring him to this party,” Ulos insists.
Shifting in his seat, Sarica can’t push the mental images away – images that are more memories than fantasies, really, aside from the fact that it’s no longer Timachus’ tall, broad figure he sees, but Anakin’s leaner, longer one. His friends will treat this party as any orgy Sarica has ever hosted, and as such they’ll either bemoan the lack of carnal pleasures or they’ll treat Anakin as the obvious replacement. Naturally, Sarica can only feel sorry for them, if they do. Anakin could cut them in half. Oh, he just might. But still, he has no desire to have the younger man treated like a slave, like a toy, a plaything, those days are long over, yes.
Ulos’ what deserves better than that.
“If he wants to come, he can come,” Sarica begins, quickly holding up his hand to shut Ulos up long enough to add, “but even if he attends, he is off limits. As you pour wine for everyone, let them know, because I will not repeat myself.”
Ulos frowns, then gets an ugly, hard draw to his lips, hardening his whole expression. Did Sarica just lose his oldest ally to a refusal of sharing his bed partner? Time to find new ones, it seems. Strategies may have to change.
“You were never like this, with Timachus,” Ulos half-concludes, half-asks.
Sarica shrugs, coldly, and reaches for his cup of wine, saying on the way: “I was younger, back then.”
With a loud laugh, Ulos shakes his head. “You’re getting too intent on keeping everything to yourself, I think.”
A pause. Exhaling slowly, long, hard, Sarica narrows his eyes to slits and sits up straighter, the wine sloshing around the cup and he takes a long drag of it, to minimize the risk of spilling all over his new tunic. He bought clothes for himself and for Anakin the previous day, this is the result. This kind of insolence. “Some things,” he says, articulating everything clearly, sharply, “are mine. Do not be mistaken.”
“Timachus was yours, too, but the rest of us still got to taste, Sarica.”
And Sarica thinks of proud Anakin, arrogant Anakin, rash Anakin, Anakin who slaughtered a people for his mother and who thinks it’s a shame he needs to bear, Anakin who would go headfirst into battle for him. That Anakin is not someone you have a taste of and then discard, like old garments or garbage. The thought nauseates him. However, it nauseates him even more to imagine that Ulos got his taste and wasn’t willing to let go, taking him from Sarica, stealing him away.
No.
”I’ll forgive you the liberties you’re taking right now, Ulos,” Sarica replies, the smile on his lips neither friendly nor forgiving, least of all pleasant. “Only if you agree to bring more wine.”
Unfortunately, he needs to host this event, or he wouldn’t do it. He’d keep Anakin close, chest to chest, heart to heart, as they’ve come, and let the world burn down around them if it were so inclined. As it is, however, the currents in the Senate are turning against him and he will have to reinforce his foundation, make it stronger, make it durable. Yet, if it puts Anakin at risk of men like Ulos? Perhaps he’ll separate the two things, not get them mixed up, not get Anakin mixed up in that. Sarica’s old life, the one people would run from. Timachus, for example, Timachus who has run again, escaped, to Reece no doubt.
Anakin’s still here.
So, Sarica will keep it that way.
He stands up, making Ulos do the same. The atmosphere is arctic. Sarica downs the rest of his wine, inelegantly. Waits. I’ll bring two cases, Ulos gives, finally.
Whether he truly understands, Sarica doesn’t know, he doubts it. After all, he hardly even understands it himself, but he’ll rely on old friendship for old friendship’s sake and give the man the benefit of the doubt, and maybe Anakin can have a free choice, in turn. Maybe.
Maybe.
word count: ~1000
rating: Teen+
warnings: N/A
summary: 'You’ve changed,' Ulos tells him, staring into his open, unintimidated face with his dark, beady eyes. 'Timachus was a god and he couldn’t change you this way, what is this man?'
author's notes: Written for
genprompt_bingo's "Forgiveness" prompt.__________
Ulos has agreed to meet with him at his villa, Sarica having discreetly directed Anakin somewhere else during the consultation. They’ve eaten lunch together while discussing the current, anti-war discourse in the Senate, Ulos having, less discreetly implied that it’s Sarica’s own fault, you’ve gone soft in old age, my friend, meaning – he doesn’t steer them through lust and greed and fear anymore, so they will steer him by other means instead. Old wisdom.
While Juila clears the table, Ulos throws his dirty, sandal-clad feet up onto the tabletop, resting them by his ankles on the edge and flexing his toes lazily, looking over at Sarica with that particular look he gets when he eyes any opportunity to backstab him and gain from it. Sarica sees it coming, from a mile away, and simply walks over to the nearest divan, sitting down and keeping his own feet firmly on the floor. They’ve discussed wine (Ulos knows a distributor in the West State who has just had an excellent harvest, he'll bring a case), entertainment (Ulos keeping his mouth shut mainly because all Sarica’s defenses were up, strategically a very bad timing, so they agreed on hiring the dancing troupe from Mergan that has toured the capital the past couple of days), but now the other man can’t be subdued any longer. Sarica can tell. He resigns himself to the inevitable, gesturing lightly with one hand in Ulos’ direction, indicating he’s free to speak.
So Ulos speaks.
“You haven’t shown him off at all since he arrived, Sarica,” he complains, loudly, his whole body speaking of predatory want and the envy that has always existed and grown between them, since they were both too young to grow their beards out. Sarica always at the front, Ulos always right behind. You’ve changed, Ulos tells him, staring into his open, unintimidated face with his dark, beady eyes. Timachus was a god and he couldn’t change you this way, what is this man?
Not who, but what.
“You must bring him to this party,” Ulos insists.
Shifting in his seat, Sarica can’t push the mental images away – images that are more memories than fantasies, really, aside from the fact that it’s no longer Timachus’ tall, broad figure he sees, but Anakin’s leaner, longer one. His friends will treat this party as any orgy Sarica has ever hosted, and as such they’ll either bemoan the lack of carnal pleasures or they’ll treat Anakin as the obvious replacement. Naturally, Sarica can only feel sorry for them, if they do. Anakin could cut them in half. Oh, he just might. But still, he has no desire to have the younger man treated like a slave, like a toy, a plaything, those days are long over, yes.
Ulos’ what deserves better than that.
“If he wants to come, he can come,” Sarica begins, quickly holding up his hand to shut Ulos up long enough to add, “but even if he attends, he is off limits. As you pour wine for everyone, let them know, because I will not repeat myself.”
Ulos frowns, then gets an ugly, hard draw to his lips, hardening his whole expression. Did Sarica just lose his oldest ally to a refusal of sharing his bed partner? Time to find new ones, it seems. Strategies may have to change.
“You were never like this, with Timachus,” Ulos half-concludes, half-asks.
Sarica shrugs, coldly, and reaches for his cup of wine, saying on the way: “I was younger, back then.”
With a loud laugh, Ulos shakes his head. “You’re getting too intent on keeping everything to yourself, I think.”
A pause. Exhaling slowly, long, hard, Sarica narrows his eyes to slits and sits up straighter, the wine sloshing around the cup and he takes a long drag of it, to minimize the risk of spilling all over his new tunic. He bought clothes for himself and for Anakin the previous day, this is the result. This kind of insolence. “Some things,” he says, articulating everything clearly, sharply, “are mine. Do not be mistaken.”
“Timachus was yours, too, but the rest of us still got to taste, Sarica.”
And Sarica thinks of proud Anakin, arrogant Anakin, rash Anakin, Anakin who slaughtered a people for his mother and who thinks it’s a shame he needs to bear, Anakin who would go headfirst into battle for him. That Anakin is not someone you have a taste of and then discard, like old garments or garbage. The thought nauseates him. However, it nauseates him even more to imagine that Ulos got his taste and wasn’t willing to let go, taking him from Sarica, stealing him away.
No.
”I’ll forgive you the liberties you’re taking right now, Ulos,” Sarica replies, the smile on his lips neither friendly nor forgiving, least of all pleasant. “Only if you agree to bring more wine.”
Unfortunately, he needs to host this event, or he wouldn’t do it. He’d keep Anakin close, chest to chest, heart to heart, as they’ve come, and let the world burn down around them if it were so inclined. As it is, however, the currents in the Senate are turning against him and he will have to reinforce his foundation, make it stronger, make it durable. Yet, if it puts Anakin at risk of men like Ulos? Perhaps he’ll separate the two things, not get them mixed up, not get Anakin mixed up in that. Sarica’s old life, the one people would run from. Timachus, for example, Timachus who has run again, escaped, to Reece no doubt.
Anakin’s still here.
So, Sarica will keep it that way.
He stands up, making Ulos do the same. The atmosphere is arctic. Sarica downs the rest of his wine, inelegantly. Waits. I’ll bring two cases, Ulos gives, finally.
Whether he truly understands, Sarica doesn’t know, he doubts it. After all, he hardly even understands it himself, but he’ll rely on old friendship for old friendship’s sake and give the man the benefit of the doubt, and maybe Anakin can have a free choice, in turn. Maybe.
Maybe.