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Geta had a feeling his brother had retreated to his rooms, and he is glad to be proven right.
This whole day has not been great for Caracalla – from breakfast on till now, in the late afternoon, somehow nothing seemed to quite go his way. The food had been too late, and too bland. Dondus had ripped his newest little dress on a rock. Some senator had been disrespectful (for the last time, but still). And all together had served to accumulate into a truly stormy mood for Caracalla, which admittedly, had he just payed a little more attention, Geta would probably have noticed sooner; and maybe acted accordingly to in the arena. But then, maybe not. The new gladiator had been way too promising to sacrifice to his brother's blood-thirsty whims; he does not regret intervening to spare him. He only mislikes how that proved to be the straw to break the proverbial camel's back in his brother's mood today, prompting him to stalk off in rage, shouting all manner of ridiculous things about how Geta does not love him (the cheek!).
Well, Geta is here to fix it all now. Carefully, he approaches his brother's bed, where he can see him curled up on the far side, facing away from the door. Not for any matter of shame, Geta knows; rather likely, it is to show the world how little he thinks of it. It is not worthy to look upon him.
(Privately, Geta agrees – if it were about worthiness alone, no one should be able to gaze upon his brother's divine countenance save the gods themselves and maybe him.)
Geta approaches him carefully. By the time his knees touch the side of the bed, he can tell even in the dim candlelight (have those been burning there since morning?) that Caracalla isn't just hunched over like that for comfort; or, well, for a different kind of comfort than the mere position provides. He is pleasuring himself under his blanket. This is nothing unusual; Geta can work with this. In fact, it might even be the perfect opening act to his plan.
"Hello, Caracalla." No response save a grunt. Alright. Geta gives him a moment before offering: "Let me help you with that", hoping that his tone strikes the right balance between seductive and subservient. The last thing he wants now is for Caracalla to feel like he is giving him orders – the state he is in, that is bound to enrage him and nothing else.
This time, a small voice replies from the mound of blankets, and Geta can practically hear the stubborn pout in it. "No."
He waits another moment, and when there is no other reaction forthcoming, he launches step two. (For of course he anticipated this; who would not, if they knew Caracalla and his stubborn ways half as well as Geta does.)
Slowly (no fast movements, no assumption of authority) Geta climbs on the bed, and reaches one hand out to touch his brother's shoulder. Time to up the ante. "Not with my hand. With my mouth."
Frankly, he half expects this offer to be rebuffed as well – and were it anyone else, he would have them killed for the insolence. Such an act is unbecoming for an emperor to perform at all, let alone freely offered! But then Caracalla has always been his exception, to everything and every rule ever made – only for him does Geta debase himself so, and only from him he would take rejection without outrage.
After a few seconds of no reply, Geta is already preparing mentally preparing another offer – something material, maybe, or a good meal to chase the memories of the disappointing breakfast? – and tries not to dwell on why his brother might be turning him down. It is just his mood, he knows, nothing more, not a reflection of where he thinks Geta's skills lie or don't. (It is an open secret that between them, Caracalla is the one far more skilled at this act. He revels in it, after all, for reasons utterly mystifying to Geta, and performs it even on some of his catamites – it pleases him, somehow. Geta has never gained any pleasure from it at all, which is really the other half of the reason why he only does it for Caracalla. He is the only one he'd ever compromise his own pleasure for.)
But just before he can open his mouth and offer something new, Geta notices something: Caracalla has stopped moving. Now were this anyone else, that might not mean much, but Geta knows his brother – Caracalla severely mislikes any breaks in his pleasure. Once he pursues it, he pursues it to completion. For him to pause this chase, even for a moment, always holds meaning; usually, it means that he is thinking very hard on what might be even better. Right now, Geta has a pretty good idea of what that might be.
He has him.
Slowly, his brother emerges from his cocoon, and he begins to turn onto his back to face Geta more fully; his face flushed a deep red, from the sheer heat under the blanket just as well as from arousal, and he is so beautiful. "This does not mean I forgive you", he informs Geta haughtily (an effect somewhat undercut by his general disheveled appearance, but then, Caracalla is almost always some degree of disheveled – if that undercut his authority as emperor, he would be a poor one indeed).
"That's ok." The reply falls easily from Geta's lips, for he expected this also. Of course Caracalla's forgiveness isn't bought with just a single act, sexual or otherwise; but this will be a good first step. Next maybe he'll buy him a new exotic pet, or let him decide the fate of the gladiators in tomorrow's game, or both, and then in sum that'll be enough. Easy. He'd do all of it and more for his brother in a heartbeat.
Caracalla breathes out, relaxing a little, and lets Geta pull the blanket away from him. (Gently and carefully still, this is about making his brother feel seen and treasured; not rushed.)
Upon looking down, Geta sees how inflammed with arousal his brother already is, and is privately glad – for it means that he won't be too long. Of course, Geta is prepared to perform whatever act required for however long Caracalla needs to be satisfied (not that Caracalla's pleasure ever takes all that long to begin with), but nonetheless... on some level he'd deeply loathe to admit to, Geta feels a bit self-conscious about his skill at this act. Something that comes with how little he practices it, he knows, yet knowing it does not make him particularly inclined to practice more often. What this means for now is that he is glad to know that almost no matter what, he is going to succeed giving his brother pleasure here, without great struggle or strain.
But he must have been musing too long, for Caracalla makes an impatient noise – he so loathes waiting, he truly does – and moves his hips in a tiny aborted wiggle that Geta supposes is meant to look enticing. He is not so sure. What the motion does, however, is jostle his erect member, making it wag almost comically; and under other circumstances Geta might indeed have laughed. But he mustn't anger Caracalla, not now, and so he doesn't. He just smiles (his brother is beautiful, after all, and should always be smiled at, really), angles his body to a slightly better position above him, and takes him in his mouth without any further ado.
Going down, he knows from experience, hurts less the more relaxed he is, and so he empties his mind and tries to open his jaw as far as it would go. Idly he reflects to himself there he saw more sores on Caracalla's belly than he could remember being there last month (not that he has counted – then or now), and under his tongue, he swears he maybe even feel one or two new ones on his dick; but he does not linger on the thought. He is simply careful to never press on them directly, no matter what he does, for they pain Caracalla and taste a bit weird anyway.
Geta does not try to set a fast pace, but at the very least, a consistent one, with good suction (or as good as he can manage) – he anticipates (hopes) that Caracalla won't last more than a minute. Within seconds, however, he hears his brother's signature high-pitched moans bubble from his mouth (some days, like today, they sound almost like shrieks of pain, but he knows that they are not) – and then, feels the very bed move with how frantically Caracalla scrambles to grab hold of the blanket, the mattress, something, hands claw-like and seizing.
He needs something to grab onto, and fortunate for him, Geta is of a mood to provide, despite knowing it will inevitably prolong the experience for himself at least by a bit. He is apologizing, after all.
So he pulls off – ignoring his brother's outraged gasp – and tells Caracalla: "You may tug my hair." This time around, he is careful not to sound too subservient, but in fact deliver the line with some modicum of generousity – after all, he very much wants Caracalla to think of this as an extra treat that is not for every day. (In truth he almost always allows it during this act, unless they had somewhere to be that same day still (it would simply not do for both emperors to be seen with messy hair, after all). Caracalla just seems never able to remember this distinction in when the mussing of his brother's hair is allowed and when not and therefore, they have developed this system of explicit verbal permission.)
After giving permission, however, he is quick to sink back down on Caracalla's length, because he knows from experience that if he lets him direct his descent with his hands, the shove will be violent. (Which is fair – they have both in the past, and continue on to violate each other in such ways – but still to be avoided if possible.) And indeed just seconds later, Caracalla grabs ahold of his head with both hands; tightly, almost to the point of pain. He does not set any kind of pace for Geta – as long as he is warm and wet around him everything is alright by Caracalla, Geta knows, he just wants somewhere to curl his fingers into and this is his favorite place. Geta will just have to continue to set a pleasing pace himself.
Not that that is such a hardship, for indeed, much under a minute (truly, it barely feels more than a few seconds) later, Caracalla's little ah, ah, ahs reach their peak and so does his cock as it spurts out its release down Geta's throat. Geta swallows dutifully (it tastes sweet anyway, which he has been told may well be owed to how much his brother loves and indulges all manners of fruit) and pulls back. He wonders what's next; if he'll be pushed away now that passion's spent, or if there will be talk of more ways to earn forgiveness immediately.
He is still trying to remember what tomorrow's fights will be (to possibly entice Caracalla with) when his brother grabs at his shoulders, wordlessly whining – trying to pull him closer instead of away. And Geta lets him, of course he does; he lets himself be dragged easily, he'd never say no to this closeness unless matters of the empire demand it. So when Caracalla kisses him, deep and filthy and loving, Geta lets himself sink into it and breathe through it in relief (he does love kissing his brother, so much, and if he's kissing him like this he can't be all that angry anymore).
It doesn't stay just kissing for long, however – soon, Caracalla's hands (so soft, yet so strong whenever his demented passionate mind demands something) push and pull at Geta again. Geta is still deliberating whether to ask or try guessing his brother's latest whim (Caracalla isn't always the most coherent at expressing his desires even when he's not half-mad with arousal, making guessing the more efficient option a lot of the time) when Caracalla is suddenly speaking.
"Off, off. You now." It isn't much, but he is presently struggling to part Geta's sleeping robes and that is enough of a context clue.
He has never understood the great pleasure Caracalla seems to take in this act that holds none such for himself, but that pleasure he takes is undeniable – one might even say Caracalla enjoys pleasuring others in this way nearly as much as being pleasured in this way by others (or even more so, by the way he acts sometimes, but that would be insanity). So if part of what makes Caracalla forgive him faster is to permit him to put his mouth to use? Geta certainly won't complain.
United in purpose now, they make quick work of the remainder of Geta's clothes. And none too soon as well – for only when his blood-thick length hits the air, exposed, does Geta realize just how aroused he is by all of this already. He had pushed it to the back of his mind before, intending for this to be all about Caracalla. (He does this sometimes, not even only in situations like this when it's about submission and forgiveness but simply because he feels his brother needs the attention more than he does; this special care he thinks perhaps selfishly that no one else provides, no one else can provide for him. Not like Geta can.)
Whatever the reason for his previous ignorance however, he is ignorant no longer; feeling every pulse and throb along his whole body. Distantly, he is glad that they are alone for this, for his arousal is always different with his brother than with anyone else; and he doesn't much like others seeing this. For you see usually, his stamina is very good, totally opposed to his brother's – when he is alone with a concubine (or multiple – 'alone' here implying merely 'without Caracalla'), or when they are in an orgy together but each fucking different people – Geta can last and last (or at least last a reasonable amount of time that shames him not). The moment Caracalla is involved in his arousal however? Be it by touching him sexually or inflaming him otherwise? All that goes up in so much smoke – and so it is true as well right now, Geta presently fearing that he will be the one to not last the minute this time around. How he aches... It is so, so hard not to wrap a hand around himself immediately, seek some relief, but Geta can be patient. He can. He can wait for Caracalla to look his fill. (For some reason, he likes to look a him a little while sometimes, when they get naked together for the first time on a given day. Geta hasn't for the life of him been able to puzzle out why; but then, he enjoys looking upon Caracalla as well, naked just as well as clothed, so he supposes he can't begrudge him this.) "Brother...", Caracalla whispers hoarsely as he stares at him now, eyes deep and dark with hunger and fixed on nothing but the jut of his ramrod-straight cock, flushed almost unnaturally dark with blood.
In any other company, Geta would feel a wave of shame at how that word makes his tip weep fluid instantly, droplet upon thick droplet, but not here. Not when there are alone, with no reputations to ruin, for embarrassment does not exist between them. (Should not, at least, and Geta fights every instinctual surge of it with all he has.) In front of concubines, he almost never lets it get this far anymore – sometimes they start kissing before them, or touching through their clothes, but even that is rare and any more out of the question. Either the concubines vacate the room or they do. Ostensibly for the intimacy of the act, for the sacrilege that watching one's god-emperors to be so with each other would be for their concubines (or senators, or subjects, or otherwise). In reality, because Geta does not want his good stamina reputation ruined by falling into his brother like he never had any defenses at all. Bursting so quickly that sometimes, you'd think he'd been waiting the whole day for it, needy and hard.
Just the way he feels right now, even though he has certainly not been the aroused all day, or even for an hour, or anything more than a few minutes – but that matters not. He is aroused now, desperately so, and he needs his brother's touch now. He is this close to begging, pride and planned subservience forgotten, when Caracalla at last pushes at his shoulders to get him to lie back, and then swallows him down.
He goes down his throat like butter, Caracalla performing the act with the practiced ease of one who has done it a million times. He closes his eyes and lets himself feel it all. Lets the fire of it inflame him from the soles of his feet to the roots of his hair, and indeed, this will not take long at all.
After just a few bobs of his head, however, Caracalla unexpectedly stills, sunken down as deep on him as is physically possible. Geta's first instinct it to be annoyed – though he won't complain, of course, this is still for Caracalla, all for him and all about what he wants (and if Geta can save even a shred of face by not blowing up quite so quickly this way – just because he should not know shame with his brother does not mean he does not know it, deep within himself – well, that is mayhaps not so bad as well). Then, Caracalla closes his teeth. It's just the tiniest, slightest pressure, not enough to be a threat, just a presence – like one less skilled (Geta has had only very few of those, always dismissing them quickly, but he knows of the phenomenon nonetheless) may put their fingers to the base where their mouth cannot reach. But there is the slightest temperature difference between his gold tooth and his other, natural teeth, and suddenly, Geta's end grips him so violently that he simply passes out went it's finished.
~*~*~*~*~*~
It could only have been a few seconds that he was unconscious for, Geta knows, but when he awakens, he finds that he is hard again. And the why becomes quickly apparent, as Caracalla has yet to relinquish him from his mouth – clearly intending to wrench another peak from him before the day is out. Well, that would not be unusual either, and if that is what his brother wants, he shall have it. He shall have anything tonight that he desires, after all, so that he quickly forgive him for... for.... Geta's sluggish brain struggles to put together what it was, again, that he did today to incur his brother's ire. But whatever it was, it certainly doesn't have him too angry to not suckle on Geta's firm erection like it's the most delicious exotic treat, to suckle and suckle like a babe would on a teat. And you see now, in most men, having peaked so recently would mean that the next one was at least a little while away – but they are not most men, and nothing about them together is usual, and so before Geta can even think to chuckle to himself about further comparisons between his manhood and a mother's tit, Caracalla seizes his testicles in one meaty hand and squeezes; and all at once his man-milk empties out of him like the grip had literally pressed it out. (And as Geta pants and gasps great heaving breaths, almost more from the surprise than the exertion, Caracalla moans and sucks and slurps it all down happily.)
This time it is enough, however. He is definitely going flaccid now, and any further stimulation is sure to be painful rather than pleasurable, so Geta fully intends to push Caracalla gently but firmly away from him. That is, until he remembers that he's supposed to earn his forgiveness, and therefore aborts the motion of his arm halfway through. Instead, he gently (still so very gently, never letting it be seen like a demand) puts his hand on his brother's head. Pets his hair, gently, gently. "Isn't this enough, hm, brother?" He restrains himself from saying 'you did so good' or some phrase like it – a common thing to say for them in a situation like this, but it implies that Caracalla is performing a service for him and he mustn't be made to feel this way right now.
It is not to be; Caracalla clearly disagrees with his assessment. He hums and clings on, not moving his mouth nor his hand a single half-inch. If he is honest, Geta is at best mildly surprised. Caracalla can be ever so stubborn when one desire has set itself into his mind, and right now, that desire evidently boils down to his brother's cock in his mouth. And who is Geta to deny him? It barely even hurts, now, with how soft and slicked his careful hold of him is. He doubts it will arouse him to hardness again very soon, but this does not seem to perturb Caracalla, so by logic it should not bother Geta either. They have nothing to prove to each other, after all. Not in this.
This goes on for an interdetermined amount of time; probably just minutes, but time feels floaty and weightless in this strange space between them, where nothing exists except Geta's flaccid member between Caracalla's tongue and the roof of his mouth and his scrotum gently held in his palm (not squeezed, now). Then, eventually, very slowly, Caracalla starts his earlier ministrations up again – suckling a little on the soft supple flesh, and moving the emptied balls around in his hand like marbles. Geta wants to tell him that it's no use, but what good would that do? And who is to say what the real 'use' of this is for Caracalla, anyhow. Maybe he just enjoys this feeling by itself. It's a strange thought, but what about him isn't? Geta can find no reason to stop him. Not today. (Not ever.)
Suddenly, there is a moist kind of sound. Geta, still mostly lost and floaty, eyes closed and world narrowed down to between his legs, cannot immediately place it and nearly dismisses it; when a single, wet finger very carefully presses against him from behind.
Everything stops.
Now Geta has been known to enjoy being taken from behind – although those still alive who know are the secret-keeping kind alone – but that does not mean it is common for him. (Not that his brother is not the exception to every rule he has ever had, including this one on secrecy. It had taken entirely too long to make him truly understand – and remember – to never talk about this, not in public nor in privat with anyone at all.) The sheer shame of finding pleasure in this act at all – let alone as much as he does – being nearly enough to stop him from repeatedly performing it altogether. Nearly.
He sheds a single tear when the mere slight pressure of his brother's spit-slicked pointer finger – the mere hint of the potential act, a penetration no deeper than half a finger-tip – is enough to get him hard again. The tear rolls down his face, which is hot with shame and pleasure both, as he strains and pulses against the roof of his brother's mouth. Growing yet harder as the full finger breaches him, far down as it will go. Struggling, for the first time this entire afternoon, to hold still and demand nothing from Caracalla. Feeling his heartbeat in every fiber of his body, he pulses and pulses and aches.
When his brother finds that special spot inside of him and presses down instantly, firm and unrelenting, he has only the smallest trickle of fluid left to spill but he feels like it goes on forever anyway.
~*~*~*~*~*~
For a moment, Geta thinks Caracalla will still not let him go, and he could not have articulated how the thought makes him feel to save his life. But then finally, finally, as if waking from a daze, Caracalla slowly slips off and out of him and Geta can breathe.
But of course his brother doesn't go far; and Geta expects (maybe hopes for) a cuddle, and a calm Caracalla to sink with under the cover of sleep, even for a little while. Sometimes this act is really all his brother needs to center himself – Geta would not even be surprised if he is already forgiven now.
Only when his brother's body already all but covers him does he realize his miscalculation, as he feels one very insistent erection being ground into his hip. The movements are small and messy, but not yet desperate – despite his arousal burning hot like a brand even against Geta's sweat-flushed skin, Caracalla doesn't seem terribly close. That is alright, though. Geta may be thoroughly drained of his seed, but not fully sleep-addled, not yet. He can still do this. (For Caracalla, he thinks he could do this even in his sleep.) With one hand he pets his brother's back, soothingly but not too slowly, whispering sweet nothings into his hair (so very mussed, and from what? from nothing, is the answer, that hair simply defies any taming like its owner). With the other he sneaks between them and grabs his length. Pulls at him in the way he enjoys in times like these – grip firm, with hard, snapping movements. He'd fondle his testicles as well, but he thinks the soothing hand may be the more important at this moment; to ground his brother, lest he may just shake loose. (It has happened before and Geta has no desire of a repeat performance now – no strength left to chase after him should he decide to bolt. That, he is too tired for.)
He expects his brother to come quickly, or at least in a reasonable amount of time, and for that to be the end of this at last. Peace and quiet and blissful sleep – gods know he is ready for it by now. But Caracalla has never done what was expected of him a day in his life.
Instead of settling into the sensations comfortably, he only seems to grow more agitated with every passing second, and not in a way that a man approaching climax does – no, his increasingly frantic movements seem to have purpose, and to Geta's growing horror, he eventually pushes his hands away. He then proceeds to sit himself halfways up, astride on Geta's legs, and bends down to kiss at his chest; alternating the kisses with little licks as well as bites, and breathing heavily all the while. Geta barely suppresses a groan of frustration. Come the morrow, after a good night's rest and with his brother's soft and supple form in his arms, where he belongs, Geta has no doubt he can and will rouse to hardness again (even though right at this moment it feels like it might not happen again for a week, experience has very much taught him differently) – but no more tonight. No more! Neither man nor god – not even his sweet dear little brother, his golden Venus in the dim candlelight – could make his member have any reaction anymore tonight. He is going to disappoint him, and he hates the thought deeply, for reasons not related to forgiveness at all.
"I can't – Stop, no more. I can't... anymore." His voice sounds way too hoarse to his own ears (he has been quiet, has he not, when had he used it up?), but he hopes his meaning at least gets across. Fights the embarrassment threatning to burn his cheeks at the admission (no shame, no shame between them, he repeats to himself, and besides; there are precious few men – who aren't in this bed right now – who could come three or more times in a row to begin with. he knows this, he does). He hopes he does not disappoint Caracalla too bad. (He hopes Caracalla has heard him at all.)
It seems that the latter, at least, is true, for a moment later his brother pulls back from where he has been nibbling a steady path down to squint at him from above; clearly thinking very hard on his next move. Geta makes to grab at his erection again, to finish him this way and be done, opens his mouth to murmur an apology on top if required – but he never gets there. "That's alright. Alright." Caracalla murmurs, and it is unclear if it is to Geta or himself. Then, he places a single quick, feather-light kiss right on the middle of his flaccid shaft, and as Geta blinks, temporarily unmoored – he moves to maneuver his body again.
To flip him on his stomach.
Geta grasps instantly what he plans, and just for a moment, all his muscles tense up as if to brace for a fight. This can't be pleasant while he's not aroused, surely. (That it arouses him at all will forever be a mystery and a burning shame, but without even that arousal? What would, what could remain?) But he is confident.... well, fairly confident, that his brother won't hurt him. Never on purpose, that much is for sure. If it gets to be too much, too painful, he can always call it quits. And this is still his apology, for ignoring Caracalla's choice in the games earlier (he is now lucid enough to recall). And so in the end, he forces his muscles to relax, and lets it happen without complaint.
You see, for all their mutual predilection for pain, Caracalla knows better than to not prepare his brother for this act. The actions are simple, repetitive and familiar, and briefly, Geta lets himself sink face-first into the pillows and drift.
He still remembers the very first time he's done this, and the very first time he's done this with his brother. They had not been far apart.
Impressed with a particular guard's great endowment, and desperate for it in a primal way he could not explain any better now than he could back in the day, he had all but ordered the act done. (Had ordered it, really, just with such a terrible shake in his voice that the guard's stoic and calm reaction – lacking any acknowledgement that the situation was anything but everyday-common, his young emperor anything but utterly sure of himself – had singlehandedly ensured he would survive to see the next sunrise.) And Geta had enjoyed it, greatly, though at the time he'd still told himself it would be only once and never again; unaware that Caracalla had been watching, nearly the entire time. Unaware until he'd come to him later in tears – asking what made that man so special, or rather, himself so unworthy, that Geta would not share this desire with him. They shared every other, after all! Like it was the most natural thing in the world – and not a perversion of their very place in it – he'd offered himself to Geta. Not to shame him, never to shame him, but only to please him. He'd never forget his shiny, tear-slicked eyes that night... his shaky lower lip, nearly in a pout. He'd promised that he wouldn't hurt Geta like that man, he was so much smaller. Would Geta not prefer that?
Distantly, Geta thinks Caracalla might be pressing similar promises into his back now, in those breathy huffs of his that would be low whispers on anybody else. It won't hurt, it won't hurt. I promise I won't make it hurt. In his mind, memory and present moment mix, and tears spring into his eyes unbidden and not caused by pain at all.
Caracalla had been so young then. Had not yet discovered for himself that a greater size meant not more pain, but more pleasure, at least if used right. And Geta would have sooner died than explain it to him right then, because he did not care if his brother was Priapus come again or smaller than him in this way as he was in all others (and he was). Did not care then and does not care now, and never will. It was Caracalla, inside him, sharing him in this most vulnerable of ways and that alone was infinitely more pleasurable to Geta than any physical shape could ever be.
And it is Caracalla inside of him now, moving at a steady pace just shy of languid, deep and wonderful. Geta is genuinely and pleasantly surprised at how good it feels, despite no true arousal being built up in his core – it's still soothing, in a strange way, to be connected so intimately.
And then Caracalla hits that special spot inside of him, and Geta must make some sort of sound or twitch or indicate it in some other way (or maybe his brother just knows him well enough), and from then he hits it dead on with every single thrust. And Geta can't get it up again, he can't, but he feels the pleasure tingle at the base of his spine regardless. Wave after relentless wave of it, washing over him, and eventually, impossibly, he can tell his balls have started to draw up; and somehow, impossibly, he remains completely flaccid and dry as he comes for the truly final time that day, pleasure sparking like lightning through every cell of his body.
The last thing he knows before the world once again goes dark is Caracalla's frantic calls of his name, so hitch-pitched he's almost squeaking, and the twitching wetness deep inside of him.
~*~*~*~*~*~
When Geta wakes the next morning, he cannot recall a thing about the how, but he is clean and on his back and in his sleeping clothes again, with Caracalla in his arms.
And when Caracalla wakes, too, some indeterminate amount of time later, his nose scrunches up with happiness upon seeing his brother's face – and Geta knows he is forgiven.
Geta resolves to do anything to make him happy that day, regardless.