The path behind the villa urbana was narrow and winding, barely more than a trail carved between hedges and crumbling garden walls.
It felt forgotten. Unkempt.
A stark contrast to the boastful entrance.
The air was warm—heavy with the scent of summer.
No moon. No stars.
At least not yet.
Only torches lit along the edges of the estate, their flames flickering in the summer breeze.
The world felt distant. Smaller somehow.
As if all that mattered was this path.
These two figures.
Lepidus walked beside Caligula, not too close.
Just near enough that if the boy stumbled, Lepidus could catch him.
Caligula said nothing as his feet led Lepidus to the place he'd found after the chaos at the Circus Maximus—a place he now sought out for solace.
He already memorized the path at heart.
His footsteps were slow, dragging a little, the hem of his toga dusted from the gravel.
He looked tired. Hollowed out.
But not afraid. Not cold.
Not anymore.
The orange-golden light of the torches behind them dimmed as they climbed.
Upward.
Past the last of the sculpted gardens. Past the servants' quarters.
Past the carved marble arch that marked the edge of Antonia's property.
They left the villa behind. The commotion. The poisoned Drusus.
Climbed further.
By the time they reached the hilltop, the moon had already peeked from its nap—pale, low, casting silver light all over where they were.
The first stars blinked into view, tentative and shy, like thoughts not yet fully formed.
It's quiet. The world felt far away, as if they'd stepped outside Rome itself.
And everything else—the chaos, the curse, the laughter, the masked cruelty of the birthday feast—was far away now.
The grass was wild and soft beneath their sandal-clad feet.
From here, the whole Palatine spread out below them like a painted dream.
The roofs of the villas shimmered faintly in the light of the dying torches.
Columns glowed pale.
Beyond them, Rome itself stretched on—endless, breathing.
Ignorant of what's happening. Of what will come.
The breeze carried whispers of incense. Of wine.
Of the city's thousand lives.
Caligula, unable to handle the heaviness of his heart, sat first.
He folded himself onto the ground, knees drawn up, arms wrapped loosely around them.
Like a boy again. Uncertain. Unfamiliar with the weight of what he was feeling.
Lepidus sat quietly beside him, not speaking. Just present.
Waiting. Watching with an almost feline stillness.
Ten feet behind, Lucius paused at the path's bend, his gaze flicking back towards the villa, watchful.
Above them, the stars were starting to blink. Twinkling.
The moon started to show off its brightness.
Caligula let out a long breath. As if by doing so, everything that happened will be forgotten.
His fingers twitched, just once, like they remembered holding something they shouldn't.
Then they went still.
He didn't look at Lepidus right away.
But eventually, his gaze drifted. And stayed.
Caligula stared at Lepidus now—quiet, unblinking, as if searching for something he didn't have the words for.
Lepidus looked back.
His green eyes caught the starlight. Vivid.
Silence.
A glimmer of worry in them.
Caligula's eyes flickered down to Lepidus's cheek.
Remembering the deep purple hand print on his handsome face from that day in the Circus Maximus.
A small fading bruise. "Almost gone now," Caligula whispered while studying him.
There was a flush creeping up Lepidus's ears. Embarrassed, maybe? Shy?
'Oh… that's why.'
The thought flashed—Caligula remembered that time in the Roman forum.
Back when he still saw Lepidus in black and white.
When, for just a moment, Lepidus's skin had darkened.
He hadn't seen his face then. Blurry. Like all the others.
Unlike right now...
Now, in the brightness of the moonlight, Lepidus's face was illuminated—still shadowed, but visible.
Distinct.
And Caligula realized something. A flicker of understanding lit behind his eyes.
'He's blushing..'
Still, Caligula didn't look away. Captivated.
Not because it was the only face he'd seen in years.
But because he was fascinated with the way Lepidus's face reddened.
And by the gentleness there. A vulnerability he didn't try to hide.
The quiet strength. The curve of his mouth. The way he looked when he thought no one was watching.
What Caligula had imagined before… hadn't done it justice.
Lepidus's eyes brushed to meet his. Then quickly away. Then back again.
Each time he caught Caligula staring, he looked aside—awkward, like he didn't know what to do with being seen.
Almost bashful.
'Well, he's always in the shadows…' Caligula didn't smile.
But something in him softened.
'He said I'm not cursed...'
Caligula stayed quiet, just watching, like a boy trying to memorize the first warm thing he's felt in a long, long time.
Then, softly, he said, "I should be honest with you.."
Lepidus turned, alert. Serious. Waiting.
The silence stretched.
"But first," Caligula continued, voice low, "tell me… what do you really want from me?"
Lepidus blinked. Hesitated. Then he looked straight in Caligula's eyes.
Honesty was written all over his face.
"I… I want to protect you." Lepidus's voice was deep.
Caligula's brows lifted. That—that—was not the answer he expected.
"Protect me?" he echoed. It came out almost a whisper.
He didn't ask how.
Or why. Or from whom.
"That's all?" Caligula asked again, quieter now.
Lepidus paused.
"And... I want to be your... friend." His voice softened on that last word.
Like Lepidus meant it. Like he'd meant it for a while.
Caligula said nothing for a moment. There were so many things he could have said.
But he didn't.
Then: "Okay."
He smiled faintly. "Friends."
The heaviness in his heart was gone.
'I made a friend...' Despite of everything that had happened—Caligula felt happy.
Then silence.
Caligula looked up at the sky.
The moon had started to rise higher, cresting the city's edge.
The stars blinked beside it—shy, like witnesses too polite to intrude.
There are no clouds. Not tonight.
Then he broke the silence again.
"Funny..." Caligula started. "Honestly, I thought you were a key..."
He peeked at Lepidus, as if trying to gauge his reactions to his words.
A soft silver glow touched the curve of Lepidus's cheek.
Then he added softly, remembering his initial plan to befriend Lepidus because of his drawings.
"My key…" Caligula murmured and glanced away.
'He's now my friend,' he thought. 'So... it should be alright to talk about this, right?'
He bit his lip. Then he sighed and decided to talk and be open about it now.
"At first, I just wanted to use you. For your drawings." Caligula confessed. Then he looked back at Lepidus again.
His gaze kept returning to Lepidus, a pull he couldn't explain.
"You see… I have a curse. An illness." Caligula's voice slowly turned into a whisper.
Lepidus tilted his head slightly. Listening. Intently.
Caligula breathed in deeply and slowly released it. Trying to find the strength to admit and tell someone everything.
"I can't see color. Everything is black and white," He finally told Lepidus.
Lepidus didn't speak, but Caligula could see the thoughts working behind his eyes.
"And faces…" he continued while he was still feeling brave. "I can't see people's faces. Even my own. It's like there's always a fog. A veil I can't lift." Bitterness in his voice.
Lepidus's expression shifted—like a puzzle was starting to click together in his mind.
"Then you appeared. Out of nowhere." Caligula's voice softened. "Clumsy.." he said, smiling at the memory
"And then I saw your drawings. So clear. So full of life. Then you offered to draw me…"
He trailed off, his voice barely audible.
"I was excited," he admitted. "I wanted to see myself. Through your eyes."
"But after that time in the Circus Maximus… something changed. Your face... cleared. All at once. Like the fog just—lifted."
"And suddenly… seeing me didn't matter anymore."
Caligula looked at him again, quietly.
"I got fascinated with you."
A breath escaped him. Embarrassed. Caligula looked away again.
"I don't know why. Maybe it's because… maybe it's because I felt safe with you."
And then, gently, he smiled again. Small. Honest. A little sad.
"You're the only face I can see. The only one that brought color into my world. You make me feel free.."
Lepidus's breathing hitched.
"Thank you.." Caligula finally said.
The moon has stopped climbing higher, as if satisfied with where it was.
The stars brightened, no longer shy.
They blinked steadily now, steady as breathing.
Somewhere, a torch crackled. Somewhere else, a body cooled.
Guards are marching. Someone barking orders.
But here, between them, something had been unveiled.
Not just a secret. Something more fragile.
Something neither of them yet dared name.
Caligula's words sank into him—slow and heavy.
Like the warmth of having someone's presence… or a weight pressing on his chest.
Lepidus didn't speak at first.
Couldn't.
His throat had tightened, and suddenly, he could hear his own heartbeat.
THU-THUMP THUMP
He turned. Just slightly. Just enough to really look at him.
Caligula, with his knees pulled close, toga askew, hands still twitching faintly.
Eyes too still—sharp, quiet.
Like a storm had passed through and left only wreckage in its wake.
Caligula looked like a boy. A prince. A ruin.
A blue-eyed goddess.
And he'd said he felt safe.
With him.
Lepidus didn't know what to do with that. Didn't think he deserved it.
But gods, he wanted to.
He wanted to be that safety.
To earn it. To hold it in his hands and shield it from everything—even from Caligula himself.
'No... I haven't done enough,' Lepidus thought.
THU-THUMP THUMP
He swallowed.
"Do you… want to keep talking?" Lepidus asked instead, voice soft, careful. "Or just… sit?"
Caligula didn't answer right away.
His gaze had wandered toward the skies, while grass was fluttering in the breeze.
Then it came back to Lepidus.
Then, finally he said: "I don't want to go back."
"You don't have to." Lepidus answered back immediately.
The silence that followed was gentle. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just there.
Lepidus shifted, inching closer.
THU-THUMP THUMP
Not enough to crowd him. Just enough that their shoulders brushed.
Caligula didn't pull away.
That felt like permission.
Lepidus let out a slow breath, eyes drifting above.
Though the hill was dark, the moon shone bright enough to see by—its light slipping across the grass like water, turning everything cool and still.
He looked back. Caligula hadn't moved. Now staring ahead—but not seeing.
So Lepidus did something small.
Something quiet.
He reached out—slowly—and brushed his fingers against Caligula's hand.
It was still cold.
But it didn't pull away.
Lepidus hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until it escaped him in a soft sigh.
And then, suddenly, he remembered.
The drawing.
His hand went instinctively to his side, patting for the saccus—and cursed under his breath when he realized it wasn't there.
He looked back. Lucius was still lurking in the shadows, sharp-eyed and freckled, watching.
Lepidus caught his gaze.
Lucius raised an eyebrow. Then, softly: "Catch."
The saccus came sailing through the air.
Lepidus caught it with both hands. "Thanks," he whispered.
Lucius gave him a quick thumbs-up. Then faded back into the dark. Just before turning away, his face shifted for a moment—softened, just slightly. Like approval. Like hope.
"What's that?" Caligula asked.
Lepidus jumped. He hadn't realized Caligula was watching.
He scratched the back of his neck, heart pounding harder now.
THU-THUMP THUMPTHUMP THUMP
"A gift."
THUMPTHUMP THUMP
"For me?"
THUMPTHUMP THUMP
"Yes."
He reached into the saccus and pulled out the scroll—careful, delicate. Like it might break.
Lepidus handed it over with shaking hands.
The moon was bright now. Full of quiet power.
Shining brighter than ever.
Caligula took it. It cast silver across Caligula's hands as he unrolled the scroll.
Around them, the stars glittered boldly, no longer faint.
And then Caligula froze. And so did Lepidus.
Breathing hitched.
Because the portrait—it was him.
Drawn in fine strokes and bold lines.
A face full of quiet pain and impossible clarity. His eyes, sharp and aching.
His mouth, half-shadowed. The curve of his brow. The strange, restless softness he wore like armor.
It wasn't how Caligula envisioned himself.
It was how Lepidus saw him.
Caligula stared at it. Silent.
Lepidus could barely hear over the pounding in his ears.
And then Caligula whispered, "This is…"
BA-DUMP
He didn't finish the sentence.
Didn't have to.
Because for a long, suspended moment, neither of them moved.
And nothing else existed but the space between them—and what filled it now.
The sky above them bloomed wide and deep.
The stars were more vivid now, flaring like fireflies caught in a divine breath.
And the moon—
The moon was a lantern held above the earth.
As if the gods themselves were holding their breath, too.