Truth be told...
When Lepidus followed Caligula into the Circus Maximus, he was still unsure.
The initial surge of bravery he'd felt while chasing after the boy now seemed fragile—easily shattered by the overwhelming reality of his situation.
He didn't know what he would say if he managed to get close.
If he could get close.
And he didn't know what to do once he was near.
If he could even get near.
It was all obstacles. One after another.
Could he really just show up unannounced and speak to Caligula as if it were the most natural thing in the world?
Could he?
"That's..." He slowed, doubt creeping in as he neared the entrance. "...That's being shameless. I suppose."
He didn't want Caligula's friends—especially Asprenas, the silver-eyed boy—to look down on him.
No, worse. He didn't want them to look down on Caligula for speaking to someone like him.
He knew they'd lift their brows. Just one glance, and they'd know.
Tattered cape. Dirty tunic. Sand-worn leather sandals.
And the smell. Sweat clung to him like a second skin.
Most of all—the brand on his face.
He looked like a runaway slave.
Suddenly, it felt like a crime just to be caught talking to a noble.
Especially someone from the Imperial family.
If he were Caligula's slave, it would make sense. They'd flog him and forget about it by tomorrow.
"It'd be nice if I actually was his slave," he muttered, a strange, almost thoughtful look settling on his face.
It felt like before—back when his mother died.
Trapped in the invisible net of Rome's social order.
More than anything, he didn't want to cause trouble.
Not for Caligula. Not for his family.
The last thing he wanted was to spark some unsavory rumor.
Because once a rumor started, it spread like rot.
It festered, swelled, and eventually became something irreversible.
And in Rome, it wouldn't be long before even the lowliest slave whispered about what happened.
That was the danger. The power of a rumor.
Back then, at the Roman Forum, he might've passed for a plebeian. But not now.
Not with this damned hand print burned across his cheek.
And now the question hammered at him—again and again:
What should he do?
Should he just blurt it out?
"I've been watching you. I know you're not okay. What can I do to help?"
Lepidus winced at the thought. That would sound insane. Desperate.
Like he'd been lurking in the shadows—which, technically, he had.
No.
Then... should he pretend it was an accident?
A casual: "Oh? Caligula? I didn't see you there."
He grimaced. That was no better.
The awkwardness alone might kill him before anyone else could.
Or maybe he could catch Caligula when the others weren't looking—pull him aside, speak to him quickly, honestly.
But even that felt reckless. And risky.
Would Caligula even come with him? Would he want to?
Good point.
Lepidus bit his lip—a nervous habit that had never quite gone away.
Every option felt terrible.
Either he embarrassed himself, or worse, dragged Caligula into something he couldn't undo.
What about sitting nearby? Quietly. Not speaking unless Caligula noticed him first?
But that meant sitting among the patricians.
Some might recognize him.
Or his father's name. Then they'd know.
That he was some unhinged stray sniffing around the edge of their world.
He could practically feel the deathly stares boring into his skin.
The rumors wouldn't crawl—they'd sprint.
Straight to Caligula. To his family.
No. Absolutely not. He couldn't risk that.
He wouldn't be the reason Caligula suffered.
"Then what should I do?" he whispered to the air—tight, dry, suffocating as it was.
But the air offered no answers. Only the dull roar of the crowd beyond the gates.
Still searching, still unsure, he stepped inside the Circus Maximus.
Loud.
Hot.
Tight.
Suffocating.
That's what greeted Lepidus inside.
His gaze flicked instinctively toward the patrician seats, scanning the rows from far right to far left, eyes flitting over every turned back, every profile, every seated figure.
No dice.
Where are they? Where is he?
He scanned again. Slower this time.
Still no Caligula.
A knot of unease twisted in his stomach.
He pushed forward, deeper into the crowd.
Sweaty bodies pressed around him.
The roar of the spectators crashed over his ears, making it hard to think.
He walked. Got his feet stepped on. Got elbowed. Pushed.
Still searching.
And then—his eyes locked onto a figure.
Slender. Standing awkwardly amid the surging crowd.
A cream-colored cape. A white tunic. Leather sandals braced unsteadily against the cobbled floor.
The boy stood trembling in the chaos.
Sunlight caught in his golden hair—it glinted like a beacon.
And then he turned.
Lepidus saw the face he'd drawn a hundred times, in charcoal and ink, in the margins of worn scrolls, in secret.
But the real face—this one—was so much more fragile.
Caligula looked sick.
His skin was pale. His forehead gleamed with sweat.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, fast breaths, as if he couldn't get enough air.
He looked like he was going to faint.
"...?"
Lepidus didn't even register what he said—if he said anything at all.
His body moved before his mind could catch up.
He moved with a speed born of instinct, faster than he thought possible.
But the sheer density of the crowd hindered him, each step a struggle against a human tide.
He could still see that distinctive golden hair being swallowed by the relentless press of bodies.
When he finally drew nearer, he shot his hand out blindly amidst the churning wave of people.
His fingers closed around a clammy arm. He knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within him.
He could feel the faint prickle of the small hairs on his own arm standing on end.
Goosebumps.
He forcefully pulled. Ignoring the surprised grunts and muttered curses around him.
He looked directly at Caligula's face.
His eyes were unfocused, pupils wide, his lips slightly parted in a silent gasp.
But the emotions flickering across his features were a rapid, bewildering storm.
It was like watching a play unfold in a heartbeat, each expression vivid and fleeting, mirroring the swift, brutal strikes of the matronae's whip against his own back.
Panic.
Shock.
Recognition.
And then—
Relief.
"I…" Caligula started, his voice a mere breath, barely audible above the roar.
But the sound died in his throat, and instead, he simply stared, his unfocused gaze locked on Lepidus.
And Lepidus stared.
They didn't speak—not yet.
The roar of the crowd still crashed like waves around them, but in the center of it all, they stood still.
Just two boys.
Caligula's scent hit him—faint oils... subtle blend of myrrh, sweat, and something distinctly him.
The scent in his imagination did no justice to the real one.
Lepidus's fingers trembled faintly, but he didn't let go of Caligula's arms.
He couldn't.
He didn't even know why he'd moved.
This wasn't any of the carefully considered choices he'd pondered.
What now? he silently asked himself, the question echoing the bewilderment in Caligula's wide eyes.
He had simply wanted to talk. Ask what was wrong…
No—okay, truth be told, even that wasn't entirely accurate.
He had followed without any real plan at all, driven by a compulsion he didn't fully understand.
Just because he saw him standing next to a boy.
After all the agonizing over what to do, there had been no follow-up plan for this exact moment.
But when he had seen Caligula standing there—frozen and pale as bone, seemingly swallowed by the overwhelming noise—his body had reacted instinctively, bypassing the hesitant calculations of his mind.
It was instinct. Plain and simple.
Desperation, maybe. Yes.
Something deep within him couldn't bear the thought of Caligula simply disappearing into that crowd.
And now that he was here—now that Caligula was looking at him, really looking, even through the haze of his distress—Lepidus felt a confusing tangle of emotions.
Caligula wasn't crying. He hadn't screamed.
But the raw fear had been etched across every visible inch of him: the subtle way his shoulders curled inward as if trying to shrink away from the world, the helpless tremor in his outstretched hands, the way his lips parted without uttering a sound.
Lepidus swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, trying to steady his own voice—but no words came.
He wasn't even sure what he wanted to say in this chaotic moment.
The truth was, he didn't fully understand the intensity of this fixation that had taken root within him.
Not entirely.
Ever since that day at the funeral, when Caligula had looked like some fallen statue—divine, distant, utterly broken—something unfamiliar had stirred within him. A persistent need.
Something more primal than mere curiosity.
At first, he had rationalized it, telling himself it was because Caligula reminded him of his own grief, his own sense of being lost.
Or perhaps it was a desperate, subconscious attempt to shift the crushing weight of his fixation from the memory of his mother onto someone else—anyone at all.
A desperate yearning to tilt his world, which had been suspended in agonizing stillness, back onto its axis. To feel the familiar rotation of life again.
Or maybe, in its simplest form, he was just deeply intrigued—morbidly curious about the boy who often wore such a profound mask of emptiness.
What got you looking like the world has ended?
That unspoken question from that distant day still lingered, unanswered, hanging heavy in the air between them now.
Caligula was a puzzle. A potential lifeline in his own stagnant existence. An enigma that both fascinated and troubled him.
At times, that ethereal beauty even felt… divine.
And the more Lepidus watched, the more fleeting glimpses he caught, the less any of it made logical sense.
Beneath all the layers of his own confusion, a simpler impulse began to emerge.
Maybe he just wanted to protect him.
Maybe that was the core of it. Someone had to.
And maybe—just maybe—if he could manage to do that, then he wouldn't feel so utterly powerless in the face of the world's harsh indifference.
A feeling that had haunted him since his mother's death.
Forever split between two worlds, neither fully slave nor truly patrician, belonging wholly to neither.
He often felt like he didn't belong anywhere.
But maybe… just maybe… there was a possibility of belonging beside Caligula.
Caligula, for his part, was still staring at the hand wrapped around his arm.
He made no move to pull away.
This wasn't the drawing hand—the one that tried to capture the world he couldn't fully see.
Not this time.
This wasn't about sketches or a desperate attempt to appear normal.
It wasn't about recreating the vibrant hues that forever eluded him.
That had been his first, fleeting thought in his panic—that Lepidus, with his seeing eyes, could somehow help him navigate this overwhelming world.
Translate the confusing rush of colors. The indistinguishable blur of faces. The suffocating chaos of sound.
But now… in the immediate aftermath of his fear, the need was simpler, and achingly sadder.
He simply wanted someone to notice him.
To reach out when the world became too dark. Too loud. Too much.
He didn't understand the inexplicable pull he felt toward Lepidus, why it mattered that it was this boy who had found him in the storm.
Only that it did.
The hand gripping his arm wasn't gentle, but it was undeniably real.
Grounding. Unshakable in the swirling vortex of the crowd.
Caligula blinked, the movement slower this time, his gaze still unfocused but somehow… present.
Then—just barely, almost imperceptibly—he nodded.
Lepidus felt the small, almost involuntary motion.
It was enough. In that overwhelming moment, it felt like everything.
He loosened his grip, just slightly.
No longer a desperate clutch, but a steady, reassuring hold.
Still there. Still holding on.
He didn't know how he could possibly protect someone like Caligula. Not yet.
But a fierce determination bloomed within him.
He would try. He wasn't going to remain a silent observer in the shadows anymore.
Not if Caligula was in danger of drowning in the very air around him.
His hand should have let go by now—propriety and the vast social gulf between them screaming for distance.
But it didn't.
His fingers lingered on Caligula's arm—not quite holding with force, not quite releasing entirely—just… there.
Hovering at the fragile edge of contact, where skin still remembered the unexpected warmth.
Where the silence between them rang louder and more profound than the cacophonous roar of the surrounding crowd.
Then—suddenly—Caligula moved.
His small hands shot up, a quick, unthinking reaction born of instinct, and seized Lepidus by the forearms.
Lepidus flinched, startled by the suddenness of the touch—but he didn't pull away.
Caligula's grip was surprisingly tight.
Too tight for someone who looked so fragile, so overwhelmed. But it wasn't violent.
It was urgent. Desperate.
Like if he didn't hold on with all his strength, Lepidus would slip away—vanish back into the terrifying noise.
Lepidus felt the tremor that ran through Caligula's small hands.
Subtle, yet undeniably there. Quaking.
Not entirely fear—though that was undoubtedly present.
Something older seemed to resonate within that tremor.
Something that lived deep within the marrow of his bones. Like a half-forgotten memory rising from the body itself—unspoken, unnameable.
He looked down into Caligula's face.
Caligula was looking up, his unfocused blue eyes finally, slowly, finding purchase on Lepidus's green ones.
Their eyes met—blue crashing into green—and in that instant, the world around Lepidus seemed to tilt on its axis.
It wasn't the romantic, idealized connection the poets sang about.
It wasn't neat or soft or easily defined. It was raw.
Two broken souls locking eyes in a moment far too large, far too intense, for their young years.
Lepidus, who had always felt like half a person—too noble for the rough honesty of the streets, too tainted by his mother's disgrace for the cold judgment in his father's eyes.
And Caligula, who wore the gilded mask of a god's lineage but shook like a frightened boy, haunted by unseen things that no one else could perceive.
Not even Lepidus.
This unexpected connection wasn't built on mutual understanding. Not yet.
It was something older. Something deeper. Something that transcended the need for clumsy words.
I see you, their silent gazes seemed to say.
I see you, and for this one moment, you're not entirely alone.
Lepidus's breath hitched in his throat. He didn't pull away. Neither did Caligula.
And for that fleeting moment—it was enough.
Even if neither of them fully understood the inexplicable pull that had drawn them together.
Even if the complex answers to the myriad unspoken questions hadn't yet surfaced—why Lepidus couldn't look away, why Caligula had reached back with such desperate urgency.
They both knew this, on some fundamental level: the vast, unforgiving world might not readily make space for either of them.
But in this brief, unexpected connection, they had found a small, quiet place within each other, where the overwhelming noise momentarily faded.
Even if only for a heartbeat.
Even if only for a heartbeat.
And then the world surged back with brutal force.
A fresh wave of people, caught up in the spectacle, crashed through the narrow passage like a flood breaking its banks.
A collective cheer erupted from the arena—something significant had happened, a gladiator had fallen, perhaps—and the immense crowd shifted as a single, living entity, lurching forward with irresistible momentum.
Lepidus stumbled, caught off balance as the press of bodies tightened around them, a sudden, suffocating crush of movement and noise.
And just like that—the fragile connection, the desperate grip—was brutally severed.
Caligula was torn from his grasp.
The physical contact broke, leaving Lepidus's fingers clutching only empty air.
He spun around, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. No.
He reached out blindly, his hand grasping at the swirling mass of tunics and cloaks, but it was too late.
The relentless crowd had swallowed Caligula whole, dividing the fragile stillness between them like shattered glass scattered on the unforgiving stone.
He caught a fleeting glimpse—just a flash of pale skin, the unmistakable shimmer of golden hair vanishing between the broad shoulders and colorful fabrics.
Panic flared sharp and fast in his chest—a cold, visceral fear of loss.
Then—a hand shot up from the crowd. Not his.
It grabbed Caligula's arm firmly, pulling him back from the surging tide of bodies.
Lepidus froze, his outstretched hand suspended in mid-air.
It wasn't him. It was someone else.
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