Interlude | Eagle | PG-13
Title: Interlude
Series: The Eagle
Pairing: Marcus/Esca
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~1,000
Summary: An interlude in Spain, in which Esca is homesick.
A/N: For anyone who has been far away from home...
There are days when Esca feels he has made the wrong decision.
Spanish sun slats through the window, orange and sticky, and so unlike the crisp grey light of home. His ears catch on a brash, brassy birdsong that he will never recognise, never relate to. The air does not smell green, but red. Scarlet as his cheeks and nose and knees have become.
Esca peels at the raw skin of his forearm and thinks of verdant hills like rounded shoulders and curved bodies. Thinks of the dead strewn in ash and ruins, and how he should have been one of them. Thinks of Rome, and his Da, and the six sons who are part of the earth now; tree roots curled in eye sockets and worms in their bones.
Esca’s mother had told him that the seventh son was the luckiest. Esca cannot distinguish luck from a curse anymore.
Even when nothing lingers for him in the thick mists of home, there is always what if. What if he had found a pretty young girl with which to have a family? What if he had killed Marcus on the trek north and started life anew? What if he had simply said ‘no’ to Marcus?
No, no, no to everything that slipped from those stern, beautiful lips.
Esca imagines smacking that mouth. Bruising and abusing it, leaving it purple and swollen and unable to request of him all of the things he does not want to give, but knows he will, all the same. The worst - the worst truth of it, is that Marcus does not have to utter a word to ask. Esca will bleed himself dry for this man, regardless.
He is too lost to hear Marcus arrive. Esca smells him first, before sun-baked arms sling around his shoulders and a firm kiss is placed atop his head. Dirt and sweat and horse. Esca hums and tilts his chin up with his eyes closed. His lips relent to a ghost of a smile as Marcus brushes his dry mouth against Esca’s brow.
“You are burdened today,” Marcus says, hot breath against Esca’s ear.
Esca does not reply. Just opens his eyes and studies the way the sun streaks through Marcus’ lightening hair. Marcus’ gaze clear, like a rushing stream with glistening green and brow pebbles strewn across the floor. There is nothing in Spain the colour of Marcus’ eyes.
“You dislike this place,” Marcus says finally, resting his cheek on Esca’s head. He does not sound upset.
Again, Esca cannot reply. He either gushes forth with words he does not mean, or remains still and silent. The last reaction Esca expects from Marcus is a low rumble of laughter.
“What?” Esca snaps, jerking up from his seat beside the window, away from Marcus’ hold. Standing and facing him, Esca juts out his chin and narrows his eyes as Marcus continues to chuckle.
“Simply -” Marcus sucks in a breath, and pins Esca with a patient look. “You would rather be freezing and miserable in the north than warm and cared for here.”
“I do not -” Esca bites his own words, tastes blood in his mouth. His lips are a white sliver as he fixes Marcus with a look. “I do not know what I would rather.”
Marcus goes sober, all deep lines and dark soldier’s eyes. “I have been in your place, Esca,” he says lowly, as if he is calming a feisty yearling.
Esca bristles at the tone, discards the pity. He cannot place a point on his nerves, or how he feels like an insect in suffocating, unshed skin. He itches everywhere.
“Esca,” Marcus says again, distant.
Esca knows what it is to curl up inside this man, to feel a deep rest in his healing bones. But Esca has never been one to lay still for long, and now he has been calcified in the Spanish sun and sandy wind.
Esca wraps his arms around himself, cups his elbows as he finds Marcus’ gaze.
Marcus sighs. “I have been in your place, and so I would not like to be the one to keep you there. You are a freed man. You may be...” Marcus moves his shoulders, a mountainous shrug. “Wherever your heart desires.”
Esca is silent, waiting without patience. He feels close to splitting in two, cracking out of the cage of his chest. Marcus is telling him to leave.
“But allow me be plain,” Marcus says with eyes like hot coals and a march of intent as he approaches Esca, places his larger hands - paws, more like - over Esca’s, over his elbows. “Where you go, I undoubtedly will, too.” A smile plays at the corners of Marcus’ mouth. “For I am also a freed man with a great deal of time to spare, following you hither and yon. I have done so previously, and it would not be such a burden repeat the journey.”
“I -” Esca twists his mouth, attempts to ward off a dawning smile. Of course he is free. How can he have forgotten? He has tied himself to Marcus through choice, not duty. He stands at Marcus’ side, but behind him. He is brother, soldier, lover. Where Marcus stays, there is home.
Esca aims a narrow look at Marcus’, but his lips are soft and giving. “You are a right arsehole.”
Marcus blinks, breaks out into a rare grin. “For not allowing you to sulk? You Britons do so love to lurk in shadows.”
Esca rolls his eyes, but he does feel weightless on the inside, like floating in a warm river. “That must be my predicament. There are not nearly enough shadows in Spain.”
A thick arm is flung over Esca’s shoulders and he doesn’t brush it off as he allows Marcus to lead him out, into the sunlight.
There are some days when Esca feels he has made the wrong decision. Unfortunately for his ego, on those days, Marcus always proves otherwise.
Series: The Eagle
Pairing: Marcus/Esca
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~1,000
Summary: An interlude in Spain, in which Esca is homesick.
A/N: For anyone who has been far away from home...
There are days when Esca feels he has made the wrong decision.
Spanish sun slats through the window, orange and sticky, and so unlike the crisp grey light of home. His ears catch on a brash, brassy birdsong that he will never recognise, never relate to. The air does not smell green, but red. Scarlet as his cheeks and nose and knees have become.
Esca peels at the raw skin of his forearm and thinks of verdant hills like rounded shoulders and curved bodies. Thinks of the dead strewn in ash and ruins, and how he should have been one of them. Thinks of Rome, and his Da, and the six sons who are part of the earth now; tree roots curled in eye sockets and worms in their bones.
Esca’s mother had told him that the seventh son was the luckiest. Esca cannot distinguish luck from a curse anymore.
Even when nothing lingers for him in the thick mists of home, there is always what if. What if he had found a pretty young girl with which to have a family? What if he had killed Marcus on the trek north and started life anew? What if he had simply said ‘no’ to Marcus?
No, no, no to everything that slipped from those stern, beautiful lips.
Esca imagines smacking that mouth. Bruising and abusing it, leaving it purple and swollen and unable to request of him all of the things he does not want to give, but knows he will, all the same. The worst - the worst truth of it, is that Marcus does not have to utter a word to ask. Esca will bleed himself dry for this man, regardless.
He is too lost to hear Marcus arrive. Esca smells him first, before sun-baked arms sling around his shoulders and a firm kiss is placed atop his head. Dirt and sweat and horse. Esca hums and tilts his chin up with his eyes closed. His lips relent to a ghost of a smile as Marcus brushes his dry mouth against Esca’s brow.
“You are burdened today,” Marcus says, hot breath against Esca’s ear.
Esca does not reply. Just opens his eyes and studies the way the sun streaks through Marcus’ lightening hair. Marcus’ gaze clear, like a rushing stream with glistening green and brow pebbles strewn across the floor. There is nothing in Spain the colour of Marcus’ eyes.
“You dislike this place,” Marcus says finally, resting his cheek on Esca’s head. He does not sound upset.
Again, Esca cannot reply. He either gushes forth with words he does not mean, or remains still and silent. The last reaction Esca expects from Marcus is a low rumble of laughter.
“What?” Esca snaps, jerking up from his seat beside the window, away from Marcus’ hold. Standing and facing him, Esca juts out his chin and narrows his eyes as Marcus continues to chuckle.
“Simply -” Marcus sucks in a breath, and pins Esca with a patient look. “You would rather be freezing and miserable in the north than warm and cared for here.”
“I do not -” Esca bites his own words, tastes blood in his mouth. His lips are a white sliver as he fixes Marcus with a look. “I do not know what I would rather.”
Marcus goes sober, all deep lines and dark soldier’s eyes. “I have been in your place, Esca,” he says lowly, as if he is calming a feisty yearling.
Esca bristles at the tone, discards the pity. He cannot place a point on his nerves, or how he feels like an insect in suffocating, unshed skin. He itches everywhere.
“Esca,” Marcus says again, distant.
Esca knows what it is to curl up inside this man, to feel a deep rest in his healing bones. But Esca has never been one to lay still for long, and now he has been calcified in the Spanish sun and sandy wind.
Esca wraps his arms around himself, cups his elbows as he finds Marcus’ gaze.
Marcus sighs. “I have been in your place, and so I would not like to be the one to keep you there. You are a freed man. You may be...” Marcus moves his shoulders, a mountainous shrug. “Wherever your heart desires.”
Esca is silent, waiting without patience. He feels close to splitting in two, cracking out of the cage of his chest. Marcus is telling him to leave.
“But allow me be plain,” Marcus says with eyes like hot coals and a march of intent as he approaches Esca, places his larger hands - paws, more like - over Esca’s, over his elbows. “Where you go, I undoubtedly will, too.” A smile plays at the corners of Marcus’ mouth. “For I am also a freed man with a great deal of time to spare, following you hither and yon. I have done so previously, and it would not be such a burden repeat the journey.”
“I -” Esca twists his mouth, attempts to ward off a dawning smile. Of course he is free. How can he have forgotten? He has tied himself to Marcus through choice, not duty. He stands at Marcus’ side, but behind him. He is brother, soldier, lover. Where Marcus stays, there is home.
Esca aims a narrow look at Marcus’, but his lips are soft and giving. “You are a right arsehole.”
Marcus blinks, breaks out into a rare grin. “For not allowing you to sulk? You Britons do so love to lurk in shadows.”
Esca rolls his eyes, but he does feel weightless on the inside, like floating in a warm river. “That must be my predicament. There are not nearly enough shadows in Spain.”
A thick arm is flung over Esca’s shoulders and he doesn’t brush it off as he allows Marcus to lead him out, into the sunlight.
There are some days when Esca feels he has made the wrong decision. Unfortunately for his ego, on those days, Marcus always proves otherwise.