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Barca, hands in his pockets, walked on the roof of the one-story strip mall surrounded by the pulsating life of the city. Los Angeles had been far from his favorite city. He returned almost two hundred years after he first set foot in the area that would grow into a sprawling metropolis. He thought it dirty, crass, and frankly ugly and much preferred Yaanga, the native village, where he had spent the winter of 1709 to its modern incarnation. Only a single draw kept him from taking off on his private jet.
He watched a specific young man, beautiful yes, but a seemingly typical Angeleno as he leaned against the wall of a diner talking to a woman. Both wore black. Barca had guarded this youth, on his late-night walks home from the all night diner he worked at, for weeks now. He had kept to the shadows and the background, eyes riveted on the impossible, as memories of a ludus and love, blood and sand, rose up from the depths of his mind. Tonight though, the wait would be over.
Then first time he had spotted the youth, Barca had been thinking of how hideous the city was and how he longed to get back to New York City. He had been staring at a garish billboard of a bland television star's over photo-shopped face. Lowering his gaze, Barca saw him out of the corner of his eye before he turned to look. Pietros. He stumbled, shocked as he hadn't been since before the Industrial Revolution, staring at the handsome youth to make sure. There were differences-- black glasses and modern clothes-- but the face was exactly the same. Despite the roaring traffic between them, the flickering neon lights, and thin crescent moon, he recognized the one he had thought he lost more than two millennia ago. It took all his willpower not to rush across the street and make a scene unbecoming in an ancient creature of the night. Following the man, discretely at a distance, his mind raced with memories that he had thought long since buried in the sands of time. He passed stores. Then apartment buildings. He cared little to where his feet took him. He focused solely on the slender man in the dark jeans and tight shirt.
The familiar youth turned into the walkway of a small apartment building. He looked behind him, directly at Barca, without seeing the vampire. The light over the gate to the tiny courtyard illuminated his features before he unlocked the gate and disappeared inside. The kind brown eyes, the clear skin, and generous mouth were better than Barca had remembered. And then some.
The emotions that had coursed through him were too strong to trust himself around the mysterious man. Throughout vampire society, he was renown for his control, but this night had him feeling emotions he had thought as dead as the Roman Empire. Barca had forced himself away, his walk turned into a jog and then a run, into the anonymity of the city.
In the weeks since that first night, he had learned more about the man that had kept him delayed in Los Angeles. He was called Adrian and he wrote in a small cafe most days and worked at night serving gourmet burgers.
It was far away from his past life in the Batiatus ludus.
---
Barca traced the curve of Pietros back as the young man slept, curled up against him, and thought of his life before the invasion, before the defeat, before his city had been lit aflame and the people sold into slavery. He had only been a year older than Pietros when he was captured by the Romans and forced to fight for their bloodthirsty crowds. Auctus had been the only one who had kept him walking the line of sanity. The months after Auctus’ passing to glory in the arena had been the darkest days of all with only small delicate white wings as comfort. Pietros had kept him from becoming an absolute beast. Barca had known the highest highs and the lowest lows. A spartan cell in a stinking ludus was a far cry from the palatial home he had grown up in as the arrogant son of an admiral. He still had his treasures, he thought as he felt his lover and listened to the sleepy coos of Auctus’ birds. Barca might never have been able to have an heir yet he had nurtured a dynasty of doves. Dawn had yet to risen, but he couldn't have slept.
Pietros stirred and kissed his chest before clung to Barca tighter. “Hmm, good morning.” He nuzzled his lover with his cheek before Barca felt him smile. “The sun isn't even up yet your shoulders are tense.”
“Burdensome thoughts.” Barca barked out as he caressed his lover's back. “Nothing to spoil the day with.”
“Your eyes tell me otherwise. Open mouth for a willing ear.” Pietros sat up and looked down at Barca with hooded eyes and a beguiling smile as he stretched his arms up. The faint rays from the small windows of the cell cast a soft light on the youth's muscles. He was better than Barca deserved.
The dark clouds that gathered in his mind scattered and he marveled at his luck at finding such a delicate creature in such a place. He sat up and wrapped his arms around Pietros. “Let us help each other,” he whispered before kissing him. Barca couldn't help himself around the other man; it had been that way since he had first seen him. Pietros lightened his spirit and made his cock hard from the beginning. If he had been a man who tolerated womanish notions, he would have said that Pietros had brought him back to life.
---
Barca followed Adrian, the one with the face of his beloved, once again for the last time. He memorized the little human details. His eyes roamed over the rise and fall of his chest, the blood infusing his cheeks, and the beat of his heart. Mortal and temporary, they had their own fragile beauty. Pietros had been a fleeting beauty like a blossom in the desert. Without Barca, the ludus had destroyed him in only weeks. Barca had made his peace with his immortal life. His only regret was he had been too late for Pietros. The few weeks that it had taken Barca to fully transform and adapt enough to a vampire’s lot to be let out of his sire’s lair had been too long. Nothing had endeared Spartacus to him as much as the man kicking Gneaus off that cliff. Barca wouldn’t be late this time. Yet he couldn’t help but pause. Sentiment kept him in the shadows and it also stilled his fangs.
After leaving the diner for home, Adrian answered a phone call from his mother. The man deserved one last call from her. “I love you, Mama. Good night.”
Two thousand years had sharpened his gladiator skills beyond that of most vampires, Barca could move faster than the human eye. He waited until Adrian put the cellphone back into his pocket. Then he had the human in his arms before he took another step. Clasping his hand over Adrian’s mouth, he took a deep unnecessary breath to calm himself. Adrian’s futile struggles only had the effect of touching more of Barca. The warm body momentarily distracted him from his vow to finally save Pietros. Barca took out his own cellphone to call his driver who followed a block behind.
Adrian mouthed the word, ‘why’, against Barca’s hand.
“I made promise.”