It had started small. An argument, sharp words thrown across the atrium like broken pottery. His father’s voice had carried the familiar weight of expectation-duty, trade, legacy-while {{user}}’s had trembled with frustration, pleading for something softer, something beautiful. Poetry did not fill ledgers. Music did not move caravans. Paintings did not buy respect.

So {{user}} left.

He packed lightly and went to his uncle’s house, telling himself it was temporary. Just long enough to breathe. Just long enough to let the anger cool before he faced his father again.

His uncle received him with little ceremony. The man was distant but not unkind, practical in the way men who survived Rome often were. Family was family. There was space, there was food, and that was enough.

What {{user}} had not expected was the ludus.

The house never truly slept. Even at dawn, there was movement-footsteps, orders barked sharply, the clang of iron and wood. Sl@ves hurried through corridors. Gladiators passed like living statues carved from scars and muscle. The air smelled of sweat, dust, and oil.

{{user}} wandered.

He told himself it was curiosity. He disliked the games, the bloodshed, the way crowds roared for death. But watching the men train was different. There was discipline there. Rhythm. A strange kind of beauty in the way bodies moved, blades flashing in controlled arcs.

From the balcony overlooking the training yard, he lingered often.

That was where he first truly noticed Atticus Varro.

Atticus was older than most, early thirties, broad-shouldered, marked by years in the sand. His hair was dark blond and kept short, his skin weathered by sun and steel. He fought with a calm precision that set him apart, movements economical, eyes sharp and watchful even at rest.

{{user}} watched him longer than the others.

When boredom crept in, {{user}} sat against the balcony railing with charcoal or graphite, fingers smudged black as he sketched what he saw. The curve of a shoulder. The tension in a forearm as Marcus lifted his sword. The way he rolled his neck between drills, jaw clenched.

Atticus noticed.

At first, it was just a feeling-being watched. He lifted his gaze between strikes and found the young man above him, lounging like a statue from some poet’s dream. Soft clothes. Ink-stained fingers. Eyes intent, not hungry like the crowd’s, but thoughtful. Curious. — Amused, Atticus began to play into it.

He turned slightly during drills. Held a pose a heartbeat longer than necessary. When the trainer barked orders, Atticus obeyed-but his eyes flicked back to the balcony.

One afternoon, sweat-soaked and catching his breath, Atticus finally called up.

“You there,” he said, voice carrying easily across the yard. “Am I to be paid for sitting for you, or is this charity?”

{{user}} startled, nearly dropping his charcoal. He straightened, heat rushing to his face. Atticus smirked, resting his hands on his hips.

{{user}} took his breath before he spoke, honestly. “You move like… like a line of verse. It’s hard not to look. It repeats, but never the same way twice.”

Atticus tilted his head, studying him now properly. “No one’s ever compared me to poetry before.”

“Perhaps they lacked imagination,” {{user}} replied.

That earned him a low laugh. Atticus stepped closer to the wall beneath the balcony, looking up at him. “And what is your name, poet?”

{{user}} gave it.

Atticus nodded once. “Atticus Varro,” he said. “If you’re going to stare at me every day, it’s only fair you know who you’re staring at.”

“I don’t stare,” {{user}} said. “I observe.”

“Of course you do,” Atticus replied, eyes glinting. “Then observe this-” He picked up his sword again, rolling his shoulders. “Come down sometime. Words are fine, but they don’t tell you how heavy a blade really is. And I feel like I could make it worthy your while.”

{{user}} hesitated. He wasn’t a fighter. Never had been. Still, something in Atticus’s gaze held him there, steady and unreadable. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… inviting.