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"How do you plan on financing the next games, Caesar?" "Sign this, Caesar." "There should be a law against wearing the stola sloppily, Caesar, really, it's a sign of degeneracy and causes unwanted commotions in -" In your own smallclothes, Geta finishes the senator's sentence sarcastically in his mind, not bothering to actually listen to the rest of his words. Senate meetings are often a hassle, but rarely are they as bad as they've been in the past few days. The list of complaints and problems brought before him simply. Does. Not. End.And not all of them are as easy to dismiss as that prude's."There are signs of a rebellion stirring in Germania, Caesar. What are you going to do about it? Will you send troops? Will you come yourself?" Geta most certainly will not, but sending some additional troops would probably be smart. It's probably nothing but rumors – hopefully nothing but rumors – but he cannot afford to chance it.On and on and on it goes like this, and Geta slowly feels like he's going out of his mind. He barely sleeps at night anymore. He barely sees Caracalla anymore, and try as he might, he cannot deny that he misses his annoying twin.So much it nearly scares him.One night, after the worst of it is seemingly finally over, Geta doesn't even try to pretend he wants to go to sleep in his own bed; letting his feet carry him to Caracalla's bedroom instead.He is nearly surprised to find his brother already under the covers – he usually stays up much later than this – but he blinks sleepily up at Geta when he hears the door, and the sight of it disarms any lingering defenses against this idea that Geta could possibly have still had. He finishes his business in the adjoining washroom as quickly as he can, slipping into his sleeping robes (there is always a spare here just like there's a spare for Caracalla in his own washroom) in what would be called a hurry on a lesser man, and finally, finally sinks under the covers next to his brother.Caracalla shifts, clearly unhappy with the position, and Geta has to remember that he prefers to lie on the right side of the bed. With a sigh, he gets up to reposition; but then at last, he can settle in. Wrap his arms around Caracalla and just breathe in his scent; just breathe and be. His mind is still whirring, but he is doing his best to make it stop. This place is calm, warm, quiet, and it is good. All is good.Geta breathes slowly, in and out. In and out. Attempts again to purge his mind of all thoughts other than Caracalla's presence; his scent, the warm supple feel of his flesh beneath his hands, so clear to him even through the clothes. The fact that they are here and alright and together. (It isn't quite successful – the senators' faces still occasionally flash beneath his eyelids – but is it good enough. It has to be.)For a few, precious, endless minutes, it is good enough.Then, he can feel Caracalla start to shift against him; and after a moment, shift again, and again. Now he might just be looking for a slightly more comfortable position, sure, he might – but Geta knows better. (He knows his brother inside-out, better than anyone.) Caracalla is aroused, and about to start doing something about it.Geta tries really hard not to sigh, or to otherwise make his displeasure known. He knows his brother's arousal tends to run hot, unstoppable – it is usually easier to just let him do something about it and wait it out than to tell him to stop, for that will just make him squirm and suffer, and then no one's happy either. He himself is definitely not in the mood though. He just wants to hold Caracalla, remind himself that he's there, that no matter how bad it gets, how loud the voice get (both outside his head and in it), he's still here, they're still here.Suddenly, Caracalla's head moves up a little and he presses his lips clumsily against Geta's, soft but insistent – and his world tilts on its axis. Geta has to be in a truly awful mood to not want to kiss his brother. (Really, for how much he loves it, he does it way too little on any given day.)And so he lets himself be kissed without protest, almost gently at first, then more and more insistent, and when Caracalla's tongue probes at his lips he opens them without hesitation. Their tongues intertwine and it's bliss, pure bliss. Just like that, Geta isn't thinking about the senate meeting anymore. About budgets or war reports or rumours of rebellion in the colonies. He is thinking of absolutely nothing at all except his brother's lips and tongue and teeth, so sweet and slick against his own, and he could almost cry with how good that feels. To just let go like that, completely...Caracalla's hand slipping underneath his sleeping robes and wrapping firmly around his manhood startles him out of his reverie. He hadn't even noticed himself growing half-hard, but evidently he is now, and under his brother's slow but firm touches he swiftly becomes fully erect. Then, Caracalla jostles him a little – pushing his sleeping clothes out of the way, Geta realizes after a second or two – adjusts his angle slightly, and begins to stroke him harder. And all the while he's still kissing him deeply, like he'll die if he stops.Geta notices the tears prickling his eyes too late to stop them from falling.He can't explain it, he can't, he couldn't if he had a thousand years to do so, but he is soon crying in earnest – all sniffles and gasps and the occasional sob (and tears, so very very many tears) – as his brother steadily strokes his hard cock between them, up and down, up and down. (He even tries to keep kissing him, and truly, Geta commends him for the effort – it's slippery and surely gross, what with the wetness and the snot, and Geta can barely hold their faces together for a few seconds at a time before another heaving gasp or hiccup shudders through him. But Caracalla doesn't care, he keeps trying, and Geta loves him.)It goes on this way for a truly endless-feeling amount of time. Every time Geta thinks the crying might get too much, might drawn him away from the pleasure between his legs for good and make him sink until he drowns, Caracalla squeezes his erection extra tight or presses his thumb to the slit at the top or something – and Geta will gasp with an almost-moan, instead of a sob, and feel every inch of his manhood as it pulses with pleasure.Time goes on and on and on, and slowly but surely, Geta feels his balls grow heavier. Truthfully, he'd almost forgotten what it feels like to have such a slow build-up of pleasure. (He doesn't like to linger on the implications of the thought, but nonetheless, it is true.) It warms him from the inside out, in the most comforting, steady, relentless way; the feeling is centered in his manhood and scrotum for sure, but everywhere else feels relaxed and syrupy-hot and wonderful as well. And Caracalla's hand is tireless, working and working and working him, transporting him slowly yet surely to his peak.Eventually, Geta stops crying. He doesn't even notice it at first; but suddenly, it hits him how the skin of his face has become quite stiff and tacky, and realizes that it must have been a little while since fresh tears and snot were last added to the mix if they're already drying up like this. Immediately, he tries to move one arm up beneath the blanket to wipe at the mess – but gives up the moment he begins. His limbs feel too heavy to move much anyway. He can't even move his hips to meet Caracalla's strokes. (If his sudden – if equally quickly aborted – arm-jerk had jostled his body just a little, up into Caracalla's tight fist, and if that had felt really quite good, well, then that's alright. Doesn't mean he has to try and repeat it. For it feels even better to simply lie there, utterly unmoving, and let his brother do all the work. For a change...) They are also kissing better again, Geta notices after a bit. His mouth feels slightly dry after losing all that water through his nose and eyes, but Caracalla's is so wet still that it all but makes up for it. Kiss after kiss after kiss they trade, and Geta gets lost in it and welcomes it.Nothing in particular happens that makes the urgency in Geta's cock and balls increase all out of a sudden. Or if it did, Geta can't identify it. His pleasure has simply gone on for long enough, and is finally reaching its boiling point – expressed through increasingly stronger throbs wracking his length, and his testicles slowly drawing up despite the heavy load they bear.Near-soundlessly, with nothing but a gasp against his brother's mouth, Geta does in the end thrust his hips twice, sharply, and comes.And comes, and comes, and comes.Truly, his pleasure thoroughout had not felt really quiet intense enough to justify such a prolonged expelling of his seed, but his pulsing organ clearly seems to disagree. Rope after rope after rope of spend shoots out from him, and it feels amazing and relieving and wonderful indeed; but it goes on for so long that by the end, Geta really makes an effort to remember when he had last emptied out this particular store.Only to realize that he cannot recall.Indeed, his days had been so busy lately, he'd not even had a concubine over in the mornings to alleviate that gentle pressure in his manhood he so often wakes with – because he had not woken with it at all. And at night, he'd slept alone, without his brother or even a slave to warm his bed. Can it truly have been a whole week since he'd last orgasmed? That would explain the copious amounts of seed indeed.Geta groans quietly, low in his throat. Now that he lets himself really feel how much had gathered in his testicles over the past seven days, poised to release – the pleasure of letting it all go feels near indescribable. Like a cleansing.Like coming home.When it's over at last, he has to bite back one last little sob. His tip twitches and gives up another small spill of white, almost like an apology. Geta supposes he can live with.His priority right now is Caracalla, anyway, because no way is he letting his twin please him so very much without giving at least a little back. His hands are clumsy, his mind fuzzy, and his limbs still so very heavy, but he manages somehow to draw Caracalla near. Almost too close for even air to fit between them."Go on", he mutters into his brother's hair, just loud enough to be heard. He presses a kiss to the wirey mop and cants his own hips forward by increments, just to make sure, to make his meaning unmistakeable. I'm here, you can, I'll hold you, your pleasure is not just allowed but welcomed, here in my arms.Caracalla understands him almost immediately, beginning to buck his hips and rock his arousal – stiff and hot like a brand, and utterly perfect – into the crease of Geta's hip. The fabric of his sleeping robe between them rubs against Geta's exposed penis, doubly sensitive after his so-recent climax, but it's merely irritating and not quite painful. Geta decides to allow him to keep it on. (And if him enjoying the idea of Caracalla shooting his seed inside of his clothes, staining them undeniably with his desperate pleasure, has anything to do with that decision; well, no one needs to know that.)It's barely a minute or two till Caracalla's panting becomes little punched-out moans, and his thrusts become a little harsher – before they stop, abruptly, and Geta feels the wetness of his spend seep quickly through the thin cloth separating them, and onto his own prick.His own prick which twitches at the sensation, making as if trying to harden again; but no way, no no no. Geta will go to sleep now, no more delays, not for anything. He breathes deeply and, subtly as possible, tries to adjust himself against Caracalla. For a few agonizing moments it seems like his manhood will not stop swelling – but then it does, settling into some less-than-half-hard state, and Geta can work with this. He's fallen asleep like this before, it is possible.Of course, Caracalla hasn't gotten the message. (Not about Geta's dick, thankfully; if he notices its returning vigor, he is not letting on, and Geta is thankful for small mercies. If Caracalla were to try and arouse him further now, he would surely give in, and sleep would once again be pushed back in favor of a desperate rush to climax.) No, it's the necessity of sleep that Caracalla seemingly hasn't understood, for suddenly, he is talking to Geta."Brother?", he mumbles into into the skin of Geta's collarbone. It is only the way his lips feel so pleasant against him there, so soft it almost tickles (almost), that makes Geta of a mood to respond at all."Mhm?", he vocalizes, a wordless encouragement to continue. He really does hope Caracalla does not have too strange a question – his mind wanders to the most absurd place sometimes after climaxing (and sometimes, even before, Geta shudders to remember) – or one that will take too long to answer. What he actually asks stops Geta short."Why do you sometimes cry when we fuck?"Geta swears his pulse stumbles for a moment. The fact that Caracalla leans back a few inches from his comfortable spot to gaze up at Geta's face, blue eyes wide and so very guileless and trusting, does not help at all. He cannot form words, a sudden and huge lump in his throat preventing any and all sounds from coming out."It is because you're sad?", asks Caracalla, sweet innocent divine little Caracalla, when Geta takes too long to answer. "I don't want you to be sad, brother, you shouldn't be sad."Horribly, unfairly, it's these very words that make new tears spring to Geta's eyes. He squeezes them shut quickly, but with a brief delay, the tears fall anyway."You're crying again!" No no no no no no. The distress in Caracalla's voice is like a vice around Geta's heart. He can't make him sad, he can't."It's alright", he manages to croak out, and it's so so difficult but he pushes through. He has to. For Caracalla. "I'm not sad. And- and even if I were. You're here. You're here and that makes it all better." And then, before Caracalla can ask any more questions, before any more embarrassing confessions can slip through his lips, Geta presses their mouths back together.Their tongues meet but it's unhurried this time; no heat behind it, no devouring impulse. They just are. Together. (Geta feels himself hardening further despite it, but he steadfastly ignores this.) He kisses and kisses and kisses Caracalla, until at last, they both simmer down and fall asleep.The next morning, he awakens with a stiff manhood again like the gods intended. (Maybe even a bit stiffer than the gods strictly intended.) He doesn't know if he's been erect all throughout the night or not; isn't even sure if he hasn't spilled in his sleep, the wet patch Caracalla left last night too vast to really be able to tell the difference. It matters not. Caracalla is warm and soft in his arms, right there, and not going anywhere. Soon, Geta will wake him, and then he will mount him properly and not cry once during it. Like a good husband. (The thought of being Caracalla's husband – and Caracalla his wife – makes his manhood twitch with excitement unfailingly, and yes, he is going to wake Caracalla up very soon indeed.)And if a few tears dare gather in his eyes after all as he performs his marital duty, he'll wipe them off quickly, and no one will ever have to know.