Whose business is it if he's uneasy in his seat? The Senate is not known for its material comforts; if he squirms in his place he's only growing numb from the reading-out of pronouncements, other men's droning voices drawing out old business. It's not as if excusing himself will offer much relief -- there's no way to position his body that does not draw out fresh soreness, or remind him of some bygone abuse.

The feeling of being well-used hasn't left him; well-used or ill-used, it makes no difference, there are still bruises on the backs of his thighs and an ugly strained muscle throbs along the inside of his groin. There are excuses -- too-vigorous exercise, too much riding -- but whenever he sits down he has cause to curse the name of the gens Antonia. All those years hearing blessed mother shout the house down, as though fit to be torn in two -- he'd thought she'd been making a show of it for the sake of the man's pride. He hadn't wanted to give Antony the satisfaction of noise, and resistance had only driven the man into sterner measures. Anger and pain, running together like sweat and blood -- like Antony's sweat, fresh and reeking, and his own spunk spilled against his belly.

Shameless, vulgar man -- whatever Mark Antony lacks as a skilled lover he makes up for with savagery. Whatever they have done together, it can hardly be called lovemaking, for all he longs to do it over again. In their next encounter it will be Antony who is struck, Antony who kneels -- the memory of his broad insolent face still stings, burning with high blood and luxury. It's a face that cries out for someone to slap it -- those thick sneering lips are begging to be split and probed until the blood runs down his chin.

Octavian's speaking voice is still broken from last night's complaints; he can scarcely manage even decorous low tones. Antony's caresses have at least left no bruises to be seen on his bare neck, but the inside of his mouth is still ragged-raw from its punishment, and no amount of scrubbing at the basin can remove from his lips the contamination of misuse.

Agrippa has been looking at him strangely these past few hours, as if he alone knows. His stylus hesitates against the unmarked tablet; Octavian passes a hand over his throat, and frowns.