Patterns
Patterns. In the couch arms that curved like ram horns. In the wall tiles' black painted lines that tried sluggishly to form squares. In the folds of Caesar's robe as it fell to the floor. In the angle of Ares' body as he stood behind Caesar. In the goddamn way they both ignored him.

Again.

Like he was a slave or a statue. Not a king. Better than the last two nights, when he was an irritation, a puppy nosing around them. Maybe if they'd wash after sex, instead of showing up reeking of come. Weren't Romans supposed to be obsessed with hygiene? Maybe Caesar bathed in Ares' semen. He sure acted like it, the pompous asshole. Didn't even touch the food, either, like it was beneath his imperial self to eat anything Greek. Correction. Anything other than the big hot cock he stroked through the tight leather, like Ares' dick was his pet. Which it was.

Why even show up at all? They didn't eat. They didn't talk to anyone but each other. To flaunt, that's why. So everyone knew that Ares endorsed Caesar and his plans for world conquest, that Caesar got banged nightly by a god. Someone should tell this Roman pretty-boy what his he-man conqueror pose revealed. Well-adjusted people did not jones for world domination. Only Caesar would never admit it. It was all "destiny this, Fate-decreed that." Ares was the same. Not about the destiny, but about his whole fucking 'bow down and kiss me my blood-stained boots' attitude. No big secret that Zeus preferred a fistful of maggots to his badass son, enough to pop Athena from his head as a replacement.

Which would all be a lot more convincing if Iphicles didn't get hard breathing their air.