in the darkest hours of the night, commodus finds himself terribly afraid to be alone. leander has been with him nearly every night for four years, and he has gotten more sleep in those blessed years than he had ever remembered having, growing up. despite this, commodus still sometimes lies awake, far longer than the poet beside him would like him to. he feels the guilt pour out of him in cascades, but he can't possibly stifle restlessness now.
"commodus?"
to the piercing sound of leander's voice through the darkness of the room, commodus startles.
"you couldn't sleep, dear?"
the familiar, concerned voice rings in his ears numerous times until his mind can make any sense of it. he replies belatedly.
"I'm not tired."
which wasn't the whole truth, but what kind of monster would he be to worry the man at a time like this? later, in the morning perhaps, he'd go on with dramatics, but not while the threat of losing sleep is with leander too.
when leander speaks again, he clings to every sound. "come here," he beckons him, tone like a mother to her child. "if I hold you, will you sleep?"
without another word, commodus leans into his chest, and warm hands smooth up his back like ivy. he sighs; it feels like the only breath he's taken since this evening. he wants to apologize, but thinks better of it. he imagines the man's expression as he chastises him, a worried glare painted on his face. "there's no need to say sorry, my love," he knows, "you wear your heart on your sleeve." we both do.
beautiful, perfect fingers rest at the back of his neck, and push his head just a little closer. he never dreams of resisting.
when leander gives him a love so fulfilling, he trusts. "blindly," a more jaded piece of him thinks, but more than he could trust himself. if the world were to collapse tomorrow, if leander told him to do nothing, that is what he would do.
he is luckier yet, to be loved by a better man than himself.
leander is the only being in the world that has seen him cry so willingly, seen who he is behind the doors to his own room. all of it. there is boastful armour adorning his bones, and scornful eyes sculpted so deftly by an unforgiving senate. he will never admit it to anyone else, but he is weak. he is a juvenile, naïve, pitiful emperor, hardly creating a single dent in his father's legacy as he is. he broods and schemes, yet judges too harshly and takes every criticism to heart. leander is a miracle. leander makes him want to be the great man he so convincingly tells the world he can be. he wants so terribly to be the man in his poems, written so brave and strong and loving. if not for rome, then for him.
he may hide behind a childish fit when he doesn't like what he's told, but he is often the one who breaks in the end. he is the one who shatters and weeps because he is not enough alone, he wishes for leander to love him, just as commodus himself loves endlessly.
he often forgets how many times he is told he does.
it is only when he calms down, after a kiss on the forehead, or strokes of his hair, that he remembers.
he remembers now.
this is one of those lovely moments, as he drifts back to sleep, that he knows he is loved in return.
